








Copyright 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 

































Zh e BnaUsb 
Gomeble Ibumaltte 

SeconD Series 


OUR VILLAGE 

BY 

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD 


WUTHERING 

HEIGHTS 

BY 

EMILY BRONTE 





Gbe English 
ComeMe Ibumaine 

Secon& Series 

Masterpieces of the great 
English novelists in which 
are portrayed the varying 
aspects of English life from 
the time of Addison to the 
present day : a series anal¬ 
ogous to that in which 
Balzac depicted the man¬ 
ners and morals of his 
French contemporaries. 










Watering my flowers. 





























/ 




Gbe jEngllsb Comeble Ibumalne 
Seconb Series 


OUR VILLAGE 


BY 

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD 







NEW YORK 

£be Century Co. 

1906 


Cvj/W. Zb, 





t 





LIBRARY of CONGRESS! 
Two Copies Received 

APK 3 1906 



x-C aXc, N 

/v- 2- J v ?y 

I A CO PY A. ' 


Copyright 1906, by 
The Century Co. 


Published April, igo6. 


THE DE VINNE PRESS 








PUBLISHER’S NOTE. 

Mary Russell Mitford was born in Alresford, Hampshire 
(England) in 1787. She was the only child of Dr. George Mit¬ 
ford whose gambling propensities and reckless extravagance 
brought the family to the verge of destitution while Mary was 
yet a little girl, and despite the fact that the wife had inherited a 
large fortune. It was the child herself, at the age of ten, who 
bolstered up temporarily the family fortune by drawing a lottery 
prize worth ^20,000. 

Before she was three Mary Mitford could read, and all 
through her girlhood she was an omniverous reader. She was 
still in her teens when she performed the extraordinary feat of 
going through fifty-five volumes in exactly one month. In 1810 
appeared her first published work — a book of miscellaneous 
poems. This was followed by other books of verse reflecting 
her love of nature. 

The reviewers were inclined to be severe, but the big reading 
public, especially in America, welcomed her warmly into the 
field of literature; and her subsequent dramatic productions, 
particularly her tragedies, met with considerable, if short-lived, 
popularity. 

About this time (1820) Dr. Mitford’s continued extravagance 
again had reduced the family to almost abject poverty; and 
their home was now “ an insufficient and meanly furnished 
laborer’s cottage” at Three Mile Cross. It was here that Mary 
Mitford wrote those inimitable sketches of rural life which, under 
the title of Our Village, brought lasting fame to their author. 
The almost instantaneous success of those sketches gave tempor¬ 
ary financial relief to the impoverished household, which now 
subsisted solely on the literary output of Miss Mitford. 

For fidelity to detail, for quaint humor and sympathetic in¬ 
sight into human nature, these sketches rank high in the literature 
of the language. No less a critic than John Ruskin says of her 
writings: “They have the playfulness and purity of the Vicar of 
Wakefield without the naughtiness of its occasional wit, or the 
dust of the world’s great road on the other side of the hedge.” 

For thirty years Miss Mitford lived and toiled unceasingly at 
Three Cross Roads, loyally, if foolishly, supporting in wicked 
luxury her handsome, idle father. When, on his death, he left 


PUBLISHER’S NOTE. 


her only a legacy of debt which the dauntless woman set to work 
to wipe out, the world’s heart was touched and royalty and com¬ 
moners united to subscribe the amount of the debt and more too ; 
and so at the end (she died in 1855) we find Miss Mitford—a 
plain little old lady, we are told, with a broad high forehead and 
eyes that gleamed like live coals — residing in peace and com¬ 
parative luxury in a trim little cottage at Swallowfield, whither 
came notables from all over the world to call upon the brilliant, 
kindly, modest author of “ Our Village.” 


vi 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

Country pictures. 3 

CHAPTER II. 

Walks in the country. II 

CHAPTER III. 

The first primrose. 16 

CHAPTER IV. 

Violeting. 20 

CHAPTER V. 

The copse. 24 

CHAPTER VI. 

The wood. 32 

CHAPTER VII. 

The dell. 36 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The cowslip-ball. 41 

CHAPTER IX. 

The old house at Aberleigh. 48 

CHAPTER X. 

The hard summer. 54 

vii 













CONTENTS. 


The shavv. 

CHAPTER XI. 

. 61 

Nutting. 

CHAPTER XII. 

. 68 

The visit. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

. 72 

Hannah Bint.. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

. 82 

The fall of the leaf . . 

CHAPTER XV. 







LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Watering my flowers. Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

He will commonly be found in the thickest of the fray. 6 

The frost-bitten gentleman. 14 

Joseph White carried off the fair Rachel. 18 

A whistling boy. 22 

Poor blind Robert. 36 

Dipping up water. 60 

By sheer beggary. 64 

Jack Bint, aided by Jack Bint’s famous dog, Watch. 84 

As much like lovers. 88 















OUR VILLAGE 



OUR VILLAGE 


I. 

COUNTRY PICTURES 

O F all situations for a constant residence, that which appears to 
me most delightful is a little village far in the country; a small 
neighbourhood, not of fine mansions finely peopled, but of cottages 
and cottage-like houses, “messuages or tenements,” as a friend of 
mine calls such ignoble and nondescript dwellings, with inhabitants 
whose faces are as familiar to us as the flowers in our garden; a 
little world of our own, close-packed and insulated like ants in an 
ant-hill, or bees in a hive, or sheep in a fold, or nuns in a convent, 
or sailors in a ship; where we know every one, are known to every 
one, interested in every one, and authorised to hope that every one 
feels an interest in us. How pleasant it is to slide into these true¬ 
hearted feelings from the kindly and unconscious influence of habit, 
and to learn to know and to love the people about us, with all their 
peculiarities, just as we learn to know and to love the nooks and 
turns of the shady lanes and sunny commons that we pass every day. 
Even in books I like a confined locality, and so do the critics when 
they talk of the unities. Nothing is so tiresome as to be whirled 
half over Europe at the chariot-wheels of a hero, to go to sleep at 
Vienna, and awaken at Madrid; it produces a real fatigue, a weari¬ 
ness of spirit. On the other hand, nothing is so delightful as to sit 
down in a country village in one of Miss Austen’s delicious novels, 
quite sure before we leave it to become intimate with every spot and 
every person it contains; or to ramble with Mr. White* over his 
own parish of Selborne, and form a friendship with the fields and 
coppices, as well as with the birds, mice, and squirrels, who inhabit 
them; or to sail with Robinson Crusoe to his island, and live there 

* White’s Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne; one of the most 
fascinating books ever written. I wonder that no naturalist has adopted the 
same plan. 


3 


OUR VILLAGE 


with him and his goats and his man Friday; — how much we dread 
any new comers, any fresh importation of savage or sailor! we never 
sympathise for a moment in our hero’s want of company, and are 
quite grieved when he gets away; — or to be shipwrecked with Fer¬ 
dinand on that other lovelier island — the island of Prospero, and 
Miranda, and Caliban, and Ariel, and nobody else, none of Dry- 
den’s exotic inventions: — that is best of all. And a small neigh¬ 
bourhood is as good in sober waking reality as in poetry or prose; 
a village neighbourhood, such as this Berkshire hamlet in which I 
write, a long, straggling, winding street at the bottom of a fine emi¬ 
nence, with a road through it, always abounding in carts, horsemen, 

and carriages, and lately enlivened by a stage-coach from B-to 

S-, which passed through about ten days ago, and will I suppose 

return some time or other. There are coaches of all varieties now¬ 
adays; perhaps this may be intended for a monthly diligence, or a 
fortnight fly. Will you walk with'me through our village, courteous 
reader ? The journey is not long. We will begin at the lower end, 
and proceed up the hill. 

The tidy, square, red cottage on the right hand, with the long 
well-stocked garden by the side of the road, belongs to a retired 
publican from a neighbouring town; a substantial person with a 
comely wife; one who piques himself on independence and idle¬ 
ness, talks politics, reads newspapers, hates the minister, and cries 
out for reform. He introduced into our peaceful vicinage the re¬ 
bellious innovation of an illumination on the Queen’s acquittal. 
Remonstrance and persuasion were in vain; he talked of liberty 
and broken windows — so we all lighted up. Oh 1 how he shone 
that night with candles, and laurel, and white bows, and gold paper, 
and a transparency (originally designed for a pocket-handkerchief) 
with a flaming portrait of her Majesty, hatted and feathered, in 
red ochre. He had no rival in the village, that we all acknowledged; 
the very bonfire was less splendid; the little boys reserved their 
best crackers to be expended in his honour, and he gave them full 
sixpence more than any one else. He would like an illumination 
once a month; for it must not be concealed that, in spite of garden¬ 
ing, of newspaper reading, of jaunting about in his little cart, and 
frequenting both church and meeting, our worthy neighbour begins 
to feel the weariness of idleness. He hangs over his gate, and 
tries to entice passengers to stop and chat; he volunteers little jobs 
all round, smokes cherry trees to cure the blight, and traces and blows 

4 




OUR VILLAGE 


up all the wasps’-nests in the parish. I have seen a great many 
wasps in our garden to-day, and shall enchant him with the intelli¬ 
gence. He even assists his wife in her sweepings and dustings. 
Poor man! he is a very respectable person, and would be a very 
happy one, if he would add a little employment to his dignity. It 
would be the salt of life to him. 

Next to his house, though parted from it by another long garden 
with a yew arbour at the end, is the pretty dwelling of the shoe¬ 
maker, a pale, sickly-looking, black-haired man, the very model of 
sober industry. There he sits in his little shop from early morning 
till late at night. An earthquake would hardly stir him: the illu¬ 
mination did not. He stuck immovably to his last, from the first 
lighting up, through the long blaze and the slow decay, till his large 
solitary candle was the only light in the place. One cannot conceive 
anything more perfect than the contempt which the man of trans¬ 
parencies and the man of shoes must have felt for each other on that 
evening. There was at least as much vanity in the sturdy industry 
as in the strenuous idleness, for our shoemaker is a man of substance; 
he employs three journeymen, two lame, and one a dwarf, so that 
his shop looks like an hospital; he has purchased the lease of his 
commodious dwelling, some even say that he has bought it out and 
out; and he has only one pretty daughter, a light, delicate, fair¬ 
haired girl of fourteen, the champion, protectress, and playfellow 
of every brat under three years old, whom she jumps, dances, 
dandles, and feeds all day long. A very attractive person is that 
child-loving girl. I have never seen any one in her station who 
possessed so thoroughly that undefinable charm, the lady-look. 
See her on a Sunday in her simplicity and her white frock, and she 
might pass for an earl’s daughter. She likes flowers too, and has a 
profusion of white stocks under her window, as pure and delicate 
as herself. 

The first house on the opposite side of the way is the black¬ 
smith’s; a gloomy dwelling, where the sun never seems to shine; 
dark and smoky within and without, like a forge. The blacksmith 
is a high officer in our little state, nothing less than a constable; 
but, alas ! alas! when tumults arise, qmd the constable is called for, 
he will commonly be found in the thickest of the fray. Lucky 
would it be for his wife and her eight children if there were no public- 
house in the land: an inveterate inclination to enter those bewitch¬ 
ing doors is Mr. Constable’s only fault. 

5 


OUR VILLAGE 


Next to this official dwelling is a spruce brick tenement, red, high, 
and narrow, boasting, one above another, three sash-windows, the 
only sash-windows in the village, with a clematis on one side and a 
rose on the other, tall and narrow like itself. That slender man¬ 
sion has a fine, genteel look. The little parlour seems made for 
Hogarth’s old maid and her stunted footboy; for tea and card 
parties, — it would just hold one table; for the rustle of faded silks, 
and the splendour of old china; for the delight of four by honours, 
and a little snug, quiet scandal between the deals; for affected 
gentility and real starvation. This should have been its destiny; 
but fate has been unpropitious: it belongs to a plump, merry, 
bustling dame, with four fat, rosy, noisy children, the very essence 
of vulgarity and plenty. 

Then comes the village shop, like other village shops, multifarious 
as a bazaar; a repository for bread, shoes, tea, cheese, tape, ribands, 
and bacon; for everything, in short, except the one particular thing 
which you happen to want at the moment, and will be sure not to 
find. The people are civil and thriving, and frugal withal; they 
have let the upper part of their house to two young women (one of 
them is a pretty blue-eyed girl) who teach little children their ABC, 
and make caps and gowns for their mammas, — parcel school¬ 
mistress, parcel mantua-maker. I believe they find adorning the 
body a more profitable vocation than adorning the mind. 

Divided from the shop by a narrow yard, and opposite the shoe¬ 
maker’s, is a habitation of whose inmates I shall say nothing. A 
cottage — no — a miniature house, with many additions, little odds 
and ends of places, pantries, and what not; all angles, and of a 
charming in-and-outness; a little bricked court before one half, and 
a little flower-yard before the other; the walls, old and weather- 
stained, covered with hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles, and a great 
apricot-tree; the casements full of geraniums (ah! there is our 
superb white cat peeping out from among them); the closets (our 
landlord has the assurance to call them rooms) full of contrivances 
and corner-cupboards; and the little garden behind full of common 
flowers, tulips, pinks, larkspurs, peonies, stocks, and carnations, with 
an arbour of privet, not unlike a sentry-box, where one lives in a 
delicious green light, and looks out on the gayest of all gay flower¬ 
beds. That house was built on purpose to show in what an exceed¬ 
ing small compass comfort may be packed. Well, I will loiter there 
no longer. 


6 


V- 



He will commonly be found in the thickest of the fray. 







OUR VILLAGE 


The next tenement is a place of importance, the Rose Inn: a 
white-washed building, retired from the road behind its fine swing¬ 
ing sign, with a little bow-window room coming out on one side, and 
forming, with our stable on the other, a sort of open square, which 
is the constant resort of carts, waggons, and return chaises. There 
are two carts there now, and mine host is serving them with beer in 
his eternal red waistcoat. He is a thriving man and a portly, as his 
waistcoat attests, which has been twice let out within this twelve- 
month. Our landlord has a stirring wife, a hopeful son, and a 
daughter, the belle of the village; not so pretty as the fair nymph of 
the shoe-shop, and far less elegant, but ten times as fine; all curl¬ 
papers in the morning, like a porcupine, all curls in the afternoon, 
like a poodle, with more flounces than curl-papers, and more lovers 
than curls. Miss Phoebe is fitter for town than country; and to do 
her justice, she has a consciousness of that fitness, and turns her 

steps townward as often as she can. She is gone to B-to-day 

with her last and principal lover, a recruiting sergeant — a man as 
tall as Sergeant Kite, and as impudent. Some day or other he will 
carry off Miss Phoebe. 

In a line with the bow-window room is a low garden-wall, belong¬ 
ing to a house under repair: — the white house opposite the collar- 
maker’s shop, with four lime-trees before it, and a waggon-load of 
bricks at the door. That house is the plaything of a wealthy, well- 
meaning, whimsical person who lives about a mile off. He has a 
passion for brick and mortar, and, being too wise to meddle with his 
own residence, diverts himself with altering and re-altering, im¬ 
proving and re-improving, doing and undoing here. It is a perfect 
Penelope’s web. Carpenters and bricklayers have been at work for 
these eighteen months, and yet I sometimes stand and wonder 
whether anything has really been done. One exploit in last June 
was, however, by no means equivocal. Our good neighbour fancied 
that the limes shaded the rooms, and made them dark (there was 
not a creature in the house but the workmen), so he had all the 
leaves stripped from every tree. There they stood, poor miserable 
skeletons, as bare as Christmas under the glowing midsummer sun. 
Nature revenged herself, in her own sweet and gracious manner; 
fresh leaves sprang out, and at nearly Christmas the foliage was as 
brilliant as when the outrage was committed. 

Next door lives a carpenter, “famed ten miles round, and worthy 
all his fame,” — few cabinet-makers surpass him, with his excellent 

7 



OUR VILLAGE 


wife, and their little daughter Lizzy, the plaything and queen of the 
village, a child three years old according to the register, but six in 
size and strength and intellect, in power and in self-will. She 
manages everybody in the place, her schoolmistress included; 
turns the wheeler’s children out of Jheir own little cart, and makes 
them draw her; seduces cakes and lollypops from the very shop 
window; makes the lazy carry her, the silent talk to her, the grave 
romp with her; does anything she pleases; is absolutely irresistible. 
Her chief attraction lies in her exceeding power of loving, and her 
firm reliance on the love and indulgence of others. How impossible 
it would be to disappoint the dear little girl when she runs to meet 
you, slides her pretty hand into yours, looks up gladly in your face, 
and says “Come!” You must go: you cannot help it. Another 
part of her charm is her singular beauty. Together with a good deal 
of the character of Napoleon, she has something of his square, sturdy, 
upright form, with the finest limbs in the world, a complexion purely 
English, a round laughing face, sunburnt and rosy, large merry blue 
eyes, curling brown hair, and a wonderful play of countenance. She 
has the imperial attitudes too, and loves to stand with her hands 
behind her, or folded over her bosom; and sometimes, when she has 
a little touch of shyness, she clasps them together on the top of her 
head, pressing down her shining curls, and looking so exquisitely 
pretty! Yes, Lizzy is queen of the village! She has but one rival 
in her dominions, a certain white greyhound called Mayflower, 
much her friend, who resembles her in beauty and strength, in play¬ 
fulness, and almost in sagacity, and reigns over the animal world 
as she over the human. They are both coming with me, Lizzy and 
Lizzy’s “pretty May.” We are now at the end of the street; a 
cross-lane, a rope-walk shaded with limes and oaks, and a cool 
clear pond overhung with elms, lead us to the bottom of the hill. 
There is still one house round the corner, ending in a picturesque 
wheeler’s shop. The dwelling-house is more ambitious. Look at 
the fine flowered window-blinds, the green door with the brass 
knocker, and the somewhat prim but very civil person, who is send¬ 
ing off a labouring man with sirs and curtsies enough for a prince of 
the blood. Those are the curate’s lodgings — apartments his land¬ 
lady would call them; he lives with his own family four miles off, 
but once or twice a week he comes to his neat little parlour to write 
sermons, to marry, or to bury, as the case may require. Never 
were better or kinder people than his host and hostess; and there is a 

8 


OUR VILLAGE 


reflection of clerical importance about them since their connection 
with the Church, which is quite edifying — a decorum, a gravity, a 
solemn politeness. Oh, to see the worthy wheeler carry the gown 
after his lodger on a Sunday, nicely pinned up in his wife’s best hand¬ 
kerchief ! — or to hear him rebuke a squalling child or a squabbling 
woman! The curate is nothing to him. He is fit to be perpetual 
churchwarden. 

We must now cross the lane into the shady rope-walk. That 
pretty white cottage opposite, which stands straggling at the end of 
the village in a garden full of flowers, belongs to our mason, the 
shortest of men, and his handsome, tall wife: he, a dwarf, with the 
voice of a giant; one starts when he begins to talk as if he were 
shouting through a speaking trumpet; she, the sister, daughter, and 
grand-daughter, of a long line of gardeners, and no contemptible 
one herself. It is very magnanimous in me not to hate her; for she 
beats me in my own way, in chrysanthemums, and dahlias, and the 
like gauds. Her plants are sure to live; mine have a sad trick of 
dying, perhaps because I love them, “not wisely, but too well,” and 
kill them with over-kindness. Half-way up the hill is another de¬ 
tached cottage, the residence of an officer, and his beautiful family. 
That eldest boy, who is hanging over the gate, and looking with such 
intense childish admiration at my Lizzy, might be a model for a 
Cupid. 

How pleasantly the road winds up the hill, with its broad green 
borders and hedgerows so thickly timbered ! How finely the evening 
sun falls on that sandy excavated bank, and touches the farmhouse 
on the top of the eminence! and how clearly defined and relieved is 
the figure of the man who is just coming down! It is poor John 
Evans, the gardener — an excellent gardener till about ten years 
ago, when he lost his wife, and became insane. He was sent to St. 
Luke’s, and dismissed as cured; but his power was gone and his 
strength; he could no longer manage a garden, nor submit to the 
restraint, nor encounter the fatigue of regular employment: so he 
retreated to the workhouse, the pensioner and factotum of the vil¬ 
lage, amongst whom he divides his services. His mind often wan¬ 
ders, intent on some fantastic and impracticable plan, and lost to 
present objects; but he is perfectly harmless, and full of a childlike 
simplicity, a smiling contentedness, a most touching gratitude. 
Every one is kind to John Evans, for there is that about him which 
must be loved; and his unprotectedness, his utter defencelessness, 

9 


OUR VILLAGE 


have an irresistible claim on every better feeling. I know nobody 
who inspires so deep and tender a pity; he improves all around him. 
He is useful, too, to the extent of his little power; will do anything, 
but loves gardening best, and still piques himself on his old arts of 
pruning fruit-trees, and raising cucumbers. He is the happiest of 
men just now, for he has the management of a melon bed — a 
melon bed ! — fie! What a grand pompous name was that for three 
melon plants under a hand-light! John Evans is sure that they will 
succeed. We shall see: as the chancellor said, “I doubt.” 

We are now on the very brow of the eminence, close to the Hill- 
house and its beautiful garden. On the outer edge of the paling, 
hanging over the bank that skirts the road, is an old thorn — such a 
thorn! The long sprays covered with snowy blossoms, so graceful, 
so elegant, so lightsome, and yet so rich! There only wants a pool 
under the thorn to give a still lovelier reflection, quivering and 
trembling, like a tuft of feathers, whiter and greener than the life, and 
more prettily mixed with the bright blue sky. There should indeed 
be a pool; but on the dark grass-plat, under the high bank, which 
is crowned by that magnificent plume, there is something that does 
almost as well, — Lizzy and Mayflower in the midst of a game at 
romps, “making a sunshine in the shady place;” Lizzy rolling, 
laughing, clapping her hands, and glowing like a rose; Mayflower 
playing about her like summer lightning, dazzling the eyes with her 
sudden turns, her leaps, her bounds, her attacks, and her escapes. 
She darts round the lovely little girl, with the same momentary touch 
that the swallow skims over the water, and has exactly the same 
power of flight, the same matchless ease and strength and grace. 
What a pretty picture they would make; what a pretty foreground 
they do make to the real landscape! The road winding down the 
hill with a slight bend, like that in the High Street at Oxford; a 
waggon slowly ascending, and a horseman passing it at a full trot — 
(ah! Lizzy, Mayflower will certainly desert you to have a gambol 
with that blood-horse!) half-way down, just at the turn, the red 
cottage of the lieutenant, covered with vines, the very image of com¬ 
fort and content; farther down, on the opposite side, the small 
white dwelling of the little mason; then the limes and the rope-walk; 
then the village street, peeping through the trees, whose clustering 
tops hide all but the chimneys, and various roofs of the houses, and 
here and there some angle of a wall; farther on, the elegant town of 
B-, with its fine old church-towers and spires; the whole view 


IO 



OUR VILLAGE 


shut in by a range of chalky hills; and over every part of the pic¬ 
ture, trees so profusely scattered, that it appears like a woodland 
scene, with glades and villages intermixed. The trees are of all 
kinds and all hues, chiefly the finely-shaped elm, of so bright and 
deep a green, the tips of whose high outer branches drop down with 
such a crisp and garland-like richness, and the oak, whose stately 
form is just now so splendidly adorned by the sunny colouring of the 
young leaves. Turning again up the hill, we find ourselves on that 
peculiar charm of English scenery, a green common, divided by the 
road; the right side fringed by hedgerows and trees, with cottages 
and farmhouses irregularly placed, and terminated by a double 
avenue of noble oaks; the left, prettier still, dappled by bright pools 
of water, and islands of cottages and cottage-gardens, and sinking 
gradually down to cornfields and meadows, and an old farmhouse, 
with pointed roofs and clustered chimneys, looking out from its 
blooming orchard, and backed by woody hills. The common is 
itself the prettiest part of the prospect; half covered with low furze, 
whose golden blossoms reflect so intensely the last beams of the 
setting sun, and alive with cows and sheep, and two sets of cricketers; 
one of young men, surrounded by spectators, some standing, some 
sitting, some stretched on the grass, all taking a delighted interest in 
the game; the other, a merry group of little boys, at a humble dis¬ 
tance, for whom even cricket is scarcely lively enough, shouting, 
leaping, and enjoying themselves to their hearts’ content. But 
cricketers and country boys are too important persons in our village 
to be talked of merely as figures in the landscape. They deserve an 
individual introduction — an essay to themselves — and they shall 
have it. No fear of forgetting the good-humoured faces that meet 
us in our walks every day. 


II. 

WALKS IN THE COUNTRY 
Frost 

c^fANUARY TWENTY-THIRD. — At noon to-day I and 
T my white greyhound, Mayflower, set out for a walk into a 
J very beautiful world,— a sort of silent fairyland, — a creation 
of that matchless magician the hoar-frost. There had been just 

11 



OUR VILLAGE 


snow enough to cover the earth^and all its covers with one sheet of 
pure and uniform white, and just time enough since the snow had 
fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their fleecy load, and clothed 
with a delicate coating of rime. The atmosphere was deliciously 
calm; soft, even mild, in spite of the thermometer, no perceptible 
air, but a stillness that might almost be felt, the sky, rather grey than 
blue, throwing out in bold relief the snow-covered roofs of our vil¬ 
lage, and the rimy trees that rise above them, and the sun shining 
dimly as through a veil, giving a pale fair light, like the moon, only 
brighter. There was a silence, too, that might become the moon, 
as we stood at our little gate looking up the quiet street; a Sabbath¬ 
like pause of work and play, rare on a work-day; nothing was 
audible but the pleasant hum of frost, that low monotonous sound, 
which is perhaps the nearest approach that life and nature can make 
to absolute silence. The very waggons as they come down the hill 
along the beaten track of crisp yellowish frost-dust, glide along like 
shadows; even May’s bounding footsteps, at her height of glee and 
of speed, fall like snow upon snow. 

But we shall have noise enough presently: May has stopped at 
Lizzy’s door; and Lizzy, as she sat on the window-sill with her 
bright rosy face laughing through the casement, has seen her and 
disappeared. She is coming. No! The key is turning in the 
door, and sounds of evil omen issue through the keyhole — sturdy 
Met me outs,” and “I will goes,” mixed with shrill cries on May 
and on me from Lizzy, piercing through a low continuous harangue, 
of which the prominent parts are apologies, chilblains, sliding, 
broken bones, lollypops, rods, and gingerbread, from Lizzy’s care¬ 
ful mother. “Don’t scratch the door, May! Don’t roar so, my 
Lizzy! We’ll call for you as we come back.” — “I’ll go now! 
Let me out! I will go !” are the last words of Miss Lizzy. Mem. 
Not to spoil that child — if I can help it. But I do think her 
mother might have let the poor little soul walk with us to-day. 
Nothing worse for children than coddling. Nothing better for 
chilblains than exercise. Besides, I don’t believe she has any — 
and as to breaking her bones in sliding, I don’t suppose there’s a 
slide on the common. These murmuring cogitations have brought 
us up the hill, and half-way across the light and airy common, with 
its bright expanse of snow and its clusters of cottages, whose turf 
fires send such wreaths of smoke sailing up the air, and diffuse such 
aromatic fragrance around. And now comes the delightful sound of 


12 


OUR VILLAGE 


childish voices, ringing with glee and merriment almost from 
beneath our feet. Ah, Lizzy, your mother was right! They are 
shouting from that deep irregular pool, all glass now, where, on two 
long, smooth, liny slides, half a dozen ragged urchins are slipping 
along in tottering triumph. Half a dozen steps bring us to the bank 
right above them. May can hardly resist the temptation of joining 
her friends, for most of the varlets are of her acquaintance, es¬ 
pecially the rogue who leads the slide, — he with the brimless hat, 
whose bronzed complexion and white flaxen hair, reversing the 
usual lights and shadows of the human countenance, give so strange 
and foreign a look to his flat and comic features. This hobgoblin, 
Jack Rapley by name, is May’s great crony; and she stands on the 
brink of the steep, irregular descent, her black eyes fixed full upon 
him, as if she intended him the favour of jumping on his head. 
She does: she is down, and upon him; but Jack Rapley is not easily 
to be knocked off his feet. He saw her coming, and in the moment 
of her leap sprung dexterously off the slide on the rough ice, steady¬ 
ing himself by the shoulder of the next in the file, which unlucky 
follower, thus unexpectedly checked in his career, fell plump back¬ 
wards, knocking down the rest of the line like a nest of card-houses. 
There is no harm done; but there they lie, roaring, kicking, sprawling, 
in every attitude of comic distress, whilst Jack Rapley and May¬ 
flower, sole authors of this calamity, stand apart from the throng, 
fondling, and coquetting, and complimenting each other, and very 
visibly laughing, May in her black eyes, Jack in his wide, close- 
shut mouth, and his whole monkey-face, at their comrades’ mis¬ 
chances. I think, Miss May, you may as well come up again, and 
leave Master Rapley to fight your battles. He’ll get out of the 
scrape. He is a rustic wit — a sort of Robin Goodfellow — the 
sauciest, idlest, cleverest, best-natured boy in the parish; always 
foremost in mischief, and always ready to do a good turn. The 
sages of our village predict sad things of Jack Rapley, so that I am 
sometimes a little ashamed to confess, before wise people, that I have 
a lurking predilection for him (in common with other naughty ones), 
and that I like to hear him talk to May almost as well as she does. 
“Come, May!” and up she springs, as light as a bird. The road 
is gay now; carts and post-chaises, and girls in red cloaks, and, afar 
off, looking almost like a toy, the coach. It meets us fast and soon. 
How much happier the walkers look than the riders — especially 
the frost-bitten gentleman, and the shivering lady with the invisible 

13 


OUR VILLAGE 


face, sole passengers of that commodious machine! Hooded, 
veiled, and bonneted, as she is, one sees from her attitude how 
miserable she would look uncovered. 

Another pond, and another noise of children. More sliding? 
Oh no 1 This is a sport of higher pretension. Our good neigh¬ 
bour, the lieutenant, skating, and his own pretty little boys, and two 
or three other four-year-old elves, standing on the brink in an ecstasy 
of joy and wonder! Oh what happy spectators! And what a 
happy performer! They admiring, he admired, with an ardour 
and sincerity never excited by all the quadrilles and the spread-eagles 
of the Seine and the Serpentine. He really skates well though, and 
I am glad I came this way; for, with all the father’s feelings sitting 
gaily at his heart, it must still gratify the pride of skill to have one 
spectator at that solitary pond who has seen skating before. 

Now we have reached the trees, — the beautiful trees! never so 
beautiful as to-day. Imagine the effect of a straight and regular 
double avenue of oaks, nearly a mile long, arching overhead, and 
closing into perspective like the roof and columns of a cathedral, 
every tree and branch incrusted with the bright and delicate con¬ 
gelation of hoar-frost, white and pure as snow, delicate and defined 
as carved ivory. How beautiful it is, how uniform, how various, 
how filling, how satiating to the eye and to the mind — above all, 
how melancholy! There is a thrilling awfulness, an intense feeling 
of simple power in that naked and colourless beauty, which falls 
on the earth like the thoughts of death — death pure, and glorious, 
and smiling, — but still death. Sculpture has always the same 
effect on my imagination, and painting never. Colour is life. — 
We are now at the end of this magnificent avenue, and at the top 
of a steep eminence commanding a wide view over four counties 
— a landscape of snow. A deep lane leads abruptly down the hill; 
a mere narrow cart-track, sinking between high banks clothed with 
fern and furze and low broom, crowned with luxuriant hedgerows, 
and famous for their summer smell of thyme. How lovely these 
banks are now — the tall weeds and the gorse fixed and stiffened 
in the hoar-frost, which fringes round the bright prickly holly, the 
pendent foliage of the bramble, and the deep orange leaves of the 
pollard oaks! Oh, this is rime in its loveliest form! And there is 
still a berry here and there on the holly, “blushing in its natural 
coral” through the delicate tracery, still a stray hip or haw for the 
birds, who abound here always. The poor birds, how tame they 

14 



The frost-bitten gentleman 
































































OUR VILLAGE 


are, how sadly tame ! There is the beautiful and rare crested wren, 
“that shadow of a bird,” as White of Selborne calls it, perched in 
the middle of the hedge, nestling as it were amongst the cold bare 
boughs, seeking, poor pretty thing, for the warmth it will not find. 
And there, farther on, just under the bank, by the slender runlet, 
which still trickles between its transparent fantastic margin of thin 
ice, as if it were a thing of life, — there, with a swift, scudding mo¬ 
tion, flits, in short low flights, the gorgeous kingfisher, its magnifi¬ 
cent plumage of scarlet and blue flashing in the sun, like the glories 
of some tropical bird. He is come for water to this little spring by 
the hillside, — water which even his long bill and slender head can 
hardly reach, so nearly do the fantastic forms of those garland-like 
icy margins meet over the tiny stream beneath. It is rarely that 
one sees the shy beauty so close or so long; and it is pleasant to see 
him in the grace and beauty of his natural liberty, the only way to 
look at a bird. We used, before we lived in a street, to fix a little 
board outside the parlour window, and cover it with bread crumbs 
in the hard weather. It was quite delightful to see the pretty things 
come and feed, to conquer their shyness, and do away their mistrust. 
First came the more social tribes, “the robin red-breast and the 
wren,” cautiously, suspiciously, picking up a crumb on the wing, 
with the little keen bright eye fixed on the window; then they would 
stop for two pecks; then stay till they were satisfied. The shyer 
birds, tamed by their example, came next; and at last one saucy 
fellow of a blackbird — a sad glutton, he would clear the board in 
two minutes, — used to tap his yellow bill against the window for 
more. How we loved the fearless confidence of that fine, frank- 
hearted creature! And surely he loved us. I wonder the practice 
is not more general. “May! May! naughty May!” She has 
frightened away the kingfisher; and now, in her coaxing penitence, 
she is covering me with snow. “ Come, pretty May ! it is time to go 
home.” 

Thaw 

January 2 8th. — We have had rain, and snow, and frost, and rain 
again; four days of absolute confinement. Now it is a thaw and 
a flood; but our light gravelly soil, and country boots, and country 
hardihood, will carry us through. What a dripping, comfortless 
day it is ! just like the last days of November: no sun, no sky, grey 
or blue; one low, overhanging, dark dismal cloud, like London 

15 


OUR VILLAGE 


smoke; Mayflower is out coursing too, and Lizzy gone to school. 
Never mind. Up the hill again! Walk we must. Oh what a 
watery world to look back upon ! Thames, Kennet, Loddon — all 
overflowed; our famous town, inland once, turned into a sort of 
Venice; C. park converted into an island; and the long range of 
meadows from B. to W. one huge unnatural lake, with trees grow¬ 
ing out of it. Oh what a watery world ! — I will look at it no longer. 
I will walk on. The road is alive again. Noise is reborn. Wag¬ 
gons creak, horses splash, carts rattle, and pattens paddle through 
the dirt with more than their usual clink. The common has its 
old fine tints of green and brown, and its old variety of inhabitants, 
horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and donkeys. The ponds are unfrozen, 
except where some melancholy piece of melting ice floats sullenly 
on the water; and cackling geese and gabbling ducks have replaced 
the lieutenant and Jack Rapley. The avenue is chill and dark, the 
hedges are dripping, the lanes knee-deep, and all nature is in a state 
of “dissolution and thaw.” 


III. 


THE FIRST PRIMROSE 


Jl/TARCH SIXTH .—Fine March weather: boisterous, blus- 
1 VJl. tering, much wind and squalls of rain; and yet the sky, 
where the clouds are swept away, deliciously blue, with snatches of 
sunshine, bright, and clear, and healthful, and the roads, in 
spite of the slight glittering showers, crisply dry. Altogether 
the day is tempting, very tempting. It will not do for the dear 
common, that windmill of a walk; but the close sheltered lanes at 
the bottom of the hill, which keep out just enough of the stormy 
air, and let in all the sun, will be delightful. Past our old house, and 
round by the winding lanes, and the workhouse, and across the lea, 
and so into the turnpike-road again, — that is our route for to-day. 
Forth we set, Mayflower and I, rejoicing in the sunshine, and still 
more in the wind, which gives such an intense feeling of existence, 
and, co-operating with brisk motion, sets our blood and our spirits 
in a glow. For mere physical pleasure, there is nothing perhaps 
equal to the enjoyment of being drawn, in a light carriage, against 

16 



OUR VILLAGE 


such a wind as this, by a blood-horse at his height of speed. Walk¬ 
ing comes next to it; but walking is not quite so luxurious or so 
spiritual, not quite so much what one fancies of flying, or being car¬ 
ried above the clouds in a balloon. 

Nevertheless, a walk is a good thing; especially under this south¬ 
ern hedgerow, where nature is just beginning to live again; the 
periwinkles, with their starry blue flowers, and their shining myrtle¬ 
like leaves, garlanding the bushes; woodbines and elder-trees push¬ 
ing out their small swelling buds; and grasses and mosses springing 
forth in every variety of brown and green. Here we are at the corner 
where four lanes meet, or rather where a passable road of stones and 
gravel crosses an impassable one of beautiful but treacherous turf, 
and where the small white farmhouse, scarcely larger than a cottage, 
and the well-stocked rick-yard behind, tell of comfort and order, but 
leave all unguessed the great riches of the master. How he became 
so rich is almost a puzzle; for, though the farm be his own, it is 
not large; and though prudent and frugal on ordinary occasions, 
Farmer Barnard is no miser. His horses, dogs, and pigs are the 
best kept in the parish, — May herself, although her beauty be 
injured by her fatness, half envies the plight of his bitch Fly: his 
wife’s gowns and shawls cost as much again as any shawls or gowns 
in the village; his dinner parties (to be sure they are not frequent) 
display twice the ordinary quantity of good things — two couples of 
ducks, two dishes of green peas, two turkey poults, two gammons 
of bacon, two plum-puddings; moreover, he keeps a single-horse 
chaise, and has built and endowed a Methodist chapel. Yet is he 
the richest man in these parts. Everything prospers with him. 
Money drifts about him like snow. He looks like a rich man. 
There is a sturdy squareness of face and figure; a good-humoured 
obstinacy; a civil importance. He never boasts of his wealth, or 
gives himself undue airs; but nobody can meet him at market or 
vestry without finding out immediately that he is the richest man 
there. They have no child to all this money; but there is an adopted 
nephew, a fine spirited lad, who may, perhaps, some day or other, 
play the part of a fountain to the reservoir. 

Now turn up the wide road till we come to the open common, 
with its park-like trees, its beautiful stream, wandering and twisting 
along, and its rural bridge. Here we turn again, past that other 
white farmhouse, half hidden by the magnificent elms which stand 
before it. Ah ! riches dwell not there, but there is found the next 

17 


OUR VILLAGE 


best thing — an industrious and light-hearted poverty. Twenty 
years ago Rachel Hilton was the prettiest and merriest lass in the 
country. Her father, an old gamekeeper, had retired to a village 
ale-house, where his good beer, his social humour, and his black- 
eyed daughter, brought much custom. She had lovers by the score; 
but Joseph White, the dashing and lively son of an opulent farmer, 
carried off the fair Rachel. They married and settled here, and 
here they live still, as merrily as ever, with fourteen children of all 
ages and sizes, from nineteen years to nineteen months, working 
harder than any people in the parish, and enjoying themselves 
more. I would match them for labour and laughter against any 
family in England. She is a blithe, jolly dame, whose beauty has 
amplified into comeliness; he is tall, and thin, and bony, with sinews 
like whipcord, a strong lively voice, a sharp weather-beaten face, 
and eyes and lips that smile and brighten when he speaks into a 
most contagious hilarity. They are very poor, and I often wish 
them richer; but I don’t know — perhaps it might put them out. 

Quite close to Farmer White’s is a little ruinous cottage, white¬ 
washed once, and now in a sad state of betweenity, where dangling 
stockings and shirts, swelled by the wind, drying in a neglected 
garden, give signal of a washerwoman. There dwells, at present 
in single blessedness, Betty Adams, the wife of our sometimes 
gardener. I never saw any one who so much reminded me in person 
of that lady whom everybody knows, Mistress Meg Merrilies; — 
as tall, as grizzled, as stately, as dark, as gipsy-looking, bonneted 
and gowned like her prototype, and almost as oracular. Here the 
resemblance ceases. Mrs Adams is a perfectly honest, industrious, 
painstaking person, who earns a good deal of money by washing 
and charing, and spends it in other luxuries than tidiness, — in 
green tea, and gin, and snuff. Her husband lives in a great family, 
ten miles off. He is a capital gardener — or rather he would be so, 
if he were not too ambitious. He undertakes all things, and finishes 
none. But a smooth tongue, a knowing look, and a great capacity 
of labour, carry him through. Let him but like his ale and his 
master, and he will do work enough for four. Give him his own 
way, and his full quantum, and nothing comes amiss to him. 

Ah, May is bounding forward ! Her silly heart leaps at the sight 
of the old place — and so in good truth does mine. What a pretty 
place it was — or rather, how pretty I thought it! I suppose I 
should have thought any place so where I had spent eighteen happy 

18 


•/ 



Joseph White carried off the fair Rachel 






































OUR VILLAGE 


years. But it was really pretty. A large, heavy, white house, in 
the simplest style, surrounded by fine oaks and elms, and tall massy 
plantations shaded down into a beautiful lawn by wild overgrown 
shrubs, bowery acacias, ragged sweet-briers, promontories of dog¬ 
wood, and Portugal laurel, and bays, overhung by laburnum and 
bird-cherry; a long piece of water letting light into the picture, 
and looking just like a natural stream, the banks as rude and wild 
as the shrubbery, interspersed with broom, and furze, and bramble, 
and pollard oaks covered with ivy and honeysuckle; the whole 
enclosed by an old mossy park paling, and terminating in a series 
of rich meadows, richly planted. This is an exact description of the 
home which, three years ago, it nearly broke my heart to leave. 
What a tearing up by the root it was ! I have pitied cabbage-plants 
and celery, and all transplantable things, ever since; though, in com¬ 
mon with them, and with other vegetables, the first agony of the 
transportation being over, I have taken such firm and tenacious 
hold of my new soil, that I would not for the world be pulled up 
again, even to be restored to the old beloved ground; — not even 
if its beauty were undiminished, which is by no means the case; 
for in those three years it has thrice changed masters, and every 
successive possessor has brought the curse of improvement upon the 
place; so that between filling up the water to cure dampness, cut¬ 
ting down trees to let in prospects, planting to keep them out, shut¬ 
ting up windows to darken the inside of the house (by which means 
one end looks precisely as an eight of spades would do that should 
have the misfortune to lose one of his corner pips), and building 
colonnades to lighten the out, added to a general clearance of pol¬ 
lards, and brambles, and ivy, and honeysuckles, and park palings, 
and irregular shrubs, the poor place is so transmogrified, that if it 
had its old looking-glass, the water, back again, it would not know 
its own face. And yet I love to haunt round about it: so does May. 
Her particular attraction is a certain broken bank full of rabbit 
burrows, into which she insinuates her long pliant head and neck, 
and tears her pretty feet by vain scratchings: mine is a warm sunny 
hedgerow, in the same remote field, famous for early flowers. Never 
was a spot more variously flowery: primroses yellow, lilac white, 
violets of either hue, cowslips, oxslips, arums, orchises, wild 
hyacinths, ground ivy, pansies, strawberries, heart’s-ease, formed 
a small part of the Flora of that wild hedgerow. How pro¬ 
fusely they covered the sunny open slope under the weeping 

19 


OUR VILLAGE 


birch, “the lady of the woods” — and how often have I started to 
see the early innocent brown snake, who loved the spot as well as 
I did, winding along the young blossoms, or rustling amongst the 
fallen leaves! There are primrose leaves already, and short green 
buds, but no flowers; not even in that furze cradle so full of roots, 
where they used to blow as in a basket. No, my May, no rabbits! 
no primroses! We may as well get over the gate into the woody 
winding lane, which will bring us home again. 

Here we are making the best of our way between the old elms that 
arch so solemnly overhead, dark and sheltered even now. They 
say that a spirit haunts this deep pool — a white lady without a 
head. I cannot say that I have seen her, often as I have paced this 
lane at deep midnight, to hear the nightingales, and look at the glow¬ 
worms;— but there,-better and rarer than a thousand ghosts, 
dearer even than nightingales or glow-worms, there is a primrose, 
the first of the year; a tuft of primroses, springing in yonder 
sheltered nook, from the mossy roots of an old willow, and living 
again in the clear bright pool. Oh, how beautiful they are — three 
fully blown, and two bursting buds! How glad I am I came this 
way! They are not to be reached. Even Jack Rapley’s love of 
the difficult and the unattainable would fail him here: May her¬ 
self could not stand on that steep bank. So much the better. Who 
would wish to disturb them? There they live in their innocent 
and fragrant beauty, sheltered from the storms, and rejoicing in the 
sunshine, and looking as if they could feel their happiness. Who 
would disturb them ? Oh, how glad I am I came this way home! 


IV. 

VIOLETING 


Jl/fARCH TWENTY-SEVENTH. — It is a dull grey morn- 
1 VJL ing, with a dewy feeling in the air ; fresh, but not windy; 
cool, but not cold; — the very day for a person newly arrived from 
the heat, the glare, the noise, and the fever of London, to plunge 
into the remotest labyrinths of the country, and regain the repose 
of mind, the calmness of heart, which has been lost in that great 
Babel. I must go violeting — it is a necessity — and I must go 

20 



OUR VILLAGE 


alone: the sound of a voice, even my Lizzy’s, the touch of May¬ 
flower’s head, even the bounding of her elastic foot, would disturb 
the serenity of feeling which I am trying to recover. I shall go 
quite alone, with my little basket, twisted like a bee-hive, which I 
love so well, because she gave it to me, and kept sacred to violets 
and to those whom I love; and I shall get out of the high-road the 
moment I can. I would not meet any one just now, even of those 
whom I best like to meet. 

Ha ! — Is not that group — a gentleman on a blood-horse, a lady 
keeping pace with him so gracefully and easily — see how prettily 
her veil waves in the wind created by her own rapid motion ! — and 
that gay, gallant boy, on the gallant white Arabian, curveting at 
their side, but ready to spring before them every instant — is not 
that chivalrous-looking party Mr and Mrs M. and dear B. ? No! 
the servant is in a different livery. It is some of the ducal family, 
and one of their young Etonians. I may go on. I shall meet no 
one now; for I have fairly left the road, and am crossing the lea 
by one of those wandering paths, amidst the gorse, and the heath, 
and the low broom, which the sheep and lambs have made — a 
path turfy, elastic, thymy, and sweet, even at this season. 

We have the good fortune to live in an unenclosed parish, and 
may thank the wise obstinacy of two or three sturdy farmers, and 
the lucky unpopularity of a ranting madcap lord of the manor, for 
preserving the delicious green patches, the islets of wilderness 
amidst cultivation, which form, perhaps, the peculiar beauty of 
English scenery. The common that I am passing now — the lea, 
as it is called — is one of the loveliest of these favoured spots. It 
is a little sheltered scene, retiring, as it were, from the village; sunk 
amidst higher lands, hills would be almost too grand a word; 
edged on one side by one gay high-road, and intersected by another; 
and surrounded by a most picturesque confusion of meadows, cot¬ 
tages, farms, and orchards; with a great pond in one corner, un¬ 
usually bright and clear, giving a delightful cheerfulness and day¬ 
light to the picture. The swallows haunt that pond; so do the 
children. There is a merry group round it now; I have seldom 
seen it without one. Children love water, clear, bright, sparkling 
water; it excites and feeds their curiosity; it is motion and life. 

The path that I am treading leads to a less lively spot, to that 
large heavy building on one side of the common, whose solid wings, 
jutting out far beyond the main body, occupy three sides of a square, 


21 


OUR VILLAGE 


l 

and give a cold, shadowy look to the court. On one side is a gloomy 
garden, with an old man digging in it, laid out in straight dark beds 
of vegetables, potatoes, cabbages, onions, beans; all earthy and 
mouldy as a newly-dug grave. Not a flower or flowering shrub ! 
Not a rose-tree or currant-bush! Nothing but for sober, melan¬ 
choly use. Oh, different from the long irregular slips of the cot¬ 
tage-gardens, with their gay bunches of polyanthuses and crocuses, f 
their wallflowers sending sweet odours through the narrow case¬ 
ment, and their gooseberry-trees bursting into a brilliancy of leaf, 
whose vivid greenness has the effect of a blossom on the eye! Oh, 
how different! On the other side of this gloomy abode is a meadow 
of that deep, intense emerald hue, which denotes the presence of 
stagnant water, surrounded by willows at regular distances, and 
like the garden, separated from the common by a wide, moat-like 
ditch. That is the parish workhouse. All about it is solid, sub¬ 
stantial, useful; — but so dreary ! so cold ! so dark ! There are 
children in the court, and yet all is silent. I always hurry past that 
place as if it were a prison. Restraint, sickness, age, extreme pov¬ 
erty, misery, which I have no power to remove or alleviate, — these 
are the ideas, the feelings, which the sight of those walls excites; 
yet, perhaps, if not certainly, they contain less of that extreme deso¬ 
lation than the morbid fancy is apt to paint. There will be found 
order, cleanliness, food, clothing, warmth, refuge for the homeless, 
medicine and attendance for the sick, rest and sufficiency for old 
age, and sympathy, the true and active sympathy which the poor 
show to the poor, for the unhappy. There may be worse places 
than a parish workhouse — and yet I hurry past it. The feeling, 
the prejudice, will not be controlled. 

The end of the dreary garden edges off into a close-sheltered lane, 
wandering and winding, like a rivulet, in gentle “sinuosities” (to 
use a word once applied by Mr Wilberforce to the Thames at Hen¬ 
ley), amidst green meadows, all alive with cattle, sheep, and beauti¬ 
ful lambs, in the very spring and pride of their tottering prettiness; 
or fields of arable land, more lively still with troops of stooping bean- 
setters, women and children,-in all varieties of costume and colour; 
and ploughs and harrows, with their wdiistling boys and steady 
carters, going through, with a slow and plodding industry, the main 
business of this busy season. What work bean-setting is! What 
a reverse of the position assigned to man to distinguish him from 
the beasts of the field! Only think of stooping for six, eight, ten 


22 





A Whistling boy 










































OUR VILLAGE 


hours a day, drilling holes in the earth with a little stick, and. then 
dropping in the beans one by one. They are paid according to the 
quantity they plant; and some of the poor women used to be 
accused of clumping them — that is to say, of dropping more than 
one bean into a hole. It seems to me, considering the temptation, 
that not to clump is to be at the very pinnacle of human virtue. 

Another turn in the lane, and we come to the old house standing 
amongst the high elms — the old farmhouse, which always, I don’t 
know why, carries back my imagination to Shakspeare’s days. It 
is a long, low, irregular building, with one room, at an angle from 
the house, covered with ivy, fine white-veined ivy; the first floor 
of the main building projecting and supported by oaken beams, and 
one of the windows below, with its old casement and long narrow 
panes, forming the half of a shallow hexagon. A porch, with seats 
in it, surmounted by a pinnacle, pointed roofs, and clustered chim¬ 
neys, complete the picture! Alas! it is little else but a picture! 
The very walls are crumbling to decay under a careless landlord and 
ruined tenant. 

Now a few yards farther, and I reach the bank. Ah! I smell 
them already — their exquisite perfume steams and lingers in this 
moist, heavy air. Through this little gate, and along the green 
south bank of this green wheat-field, and they burst upon me, the 
lovely violets, in tenfold loveliness. The ground is covered with 
them, white and purple, enamelling the short dewy grass, looking 
but the more vividly coloured under the dull, leaden sky. There 
they lie by hundreds, by thousands. In former years I have been 
used to watch them from the tiny green bud, till one or two stole 
into bloom. They never came on me before in such a sudden and 
luxuriant glory of simple beauty, — and I do really owe one pure 
and genuine pleasure to feverish London! How beautifully they 
are placed too, on this sloping bank, with the palm branches waving 
over them, full of early bees, and mixing their honeyed scent with 
the more delicate violet odour! How transparent and smooth and 
lusty are the branches, full of sap and life! And there, just by the 
old mossy root, is a superb tuft of primroses, with a yellow butterfly 
hovering over them, like a flower floating on the air. What happi-* 
ness to sit on this tufty knoll, and fill my basket with the blossoms! 
What a renewal of heart and mind! To inhabit such a scene of 
peace and sweetness is again to be fearless, gay, and gentle as a 
child. Then it is that thought becomes poetry, and feeling religion. 

23 



OUR VILLAGE 


Then it is that we are happy and good. Oh, that my whole life 
could pass so, floating on blissful and innocent sensation, enjoying 
in peace and gratitude the common blessings of Nature, thankful 
above all for the simple habits, the healthful temperament, which 
render them so dear! Alas 1 who may dare expect a life of such 
happiness? But I can at least snatch and prolong the fleeting 
pleasure, can fill my basket with pure flowers, and my heart with 
pure thoughts; can gladden my little home with their sweetness; 
can divide my treasures with one, a dear one, who cannot seek them; 
can see them when I shut my eyes; and dream of them when I fall 
asleep. 


V. 


THE COPSE 


yfPRIL EIGHTEENTH. — Sad wintry weather; a north- 
east wind; a sun that puts out one’s eyes, without affording 
the slightest warmth; dryness that chaps lips and hands like a frost 
in December; rain that comes chilly and arrowy like hail in January; 
nature at a dead pause; no seeds up in the garden; no leaves out in 
the hedgerows; no cowslips swinging their pretty bells in the fields; 
no nightingales in the dingles; no swallows skimming round the 
great pond; no cuckoos (that ever I should miss that rascally son¬ 
neteer!) in any part. Nevertheless there is something of a charm 
in this wintry spring, this putting-back of the seasons. If the 
flower-clock must stand still for a month or two, could it choose a 
better time than that of the primroses and violets ? I never remem¬ 
ber (and for such gauds my memory, if not very good for aught of 
wise or useful, may be trusted) such an affluence of the one or such 
a duration of the other. Primrosy is the epithet which this year will 
retain in my recollection. Hedge, ditch, meadow, field, even the 
very paths and highways, are set with them; but their chief habitat 
is a certain copse, about a mile off, where they are spread like a car¬ 
pet, and where I go to visit them rather oftener than quite comports 
with the dignity of a lady of mature age. I am going thither this 
very afternoon, and May and her company are going too. 

This Mayflower of mine is a strange animal. Instinct and imi¬ 
tation make in her an approach to reason which is sometimes almost 

24 



OUR VILLAGE 


startling. She mimics all that she sees us do, with the dexterity of a 
monkey, and far more of gravity and apparent purpose; cracks 
nuts and eats them; gathers currants and severs them from the 
stalk with the most delicate nicety; filches and munches apples and 
pears; is as dangerous in an orchard as a schoolboy; smells to 
flowers; smiles at meeting; answers in a pretty lively voice when 
spoken to (sad pity that the language should be unknown !) and has 
greatly the advantage of us in a conversation, inasmuch as our 
meaning is certainly clear to her; — all this and a thousand amusing 
prettinesses (to say nothing of her canine feat of bringing her game 
straight to her master’s feet, and refusing to resign it to any hand 
but his), does my beautiful greyhound perform untaught, by the 
mere effect of imitation and sagacity. Well, May, at the end of the 
coursing season, having lost Brush, our old spaniel, her great friend, 
and the blue greyhound, Mariette, her comrade and rival, both of 
which four-footed worthies were sent out to keep for the summer, 
began to find solitude a weary condition, and to look abroad for 
company. Now it so happened that the same suspension of sport 
which had reduced our little establishment from three dogs to one, 
had also dispersed the splendid kennel of a celebrated courser in our 
neighbourhood, three of whose finest young dogs came home to 
“their walk” (as the sporting phrase goes) at the collar maker’s in 
our village. May, accordingly, on the first morning of her solitude 
(she had never taken the slightest notice of her neighbours before, 
although they had sojourned in our street upwards of a fortnight), 
bethought herself of the timely resource offered to her by the vicinity 
of these canine beaux, and went up boldly and knocked at their 
stable door, which was already very commodiously on the half¬ 
latch. The three dogs came out with much alertness and gallantry, 
and May, declining apparently to enter their territories, brought 
them off to her own. This manoeuvre has been repeated every day, 
with one variation; of the three dogs, the first a brindle, the second a 
yellow, and the third a black, the two first only are now allowed to 
walk or consort with her, and the last, poor fellow, for no fault that 
I can discover except May’s caprice, is driven away not only by the 
fair lady, but even by his old companions — is, so to say, sent to 
Coventry. Of her two permitted followers, the yellow gentleman, 
Saladin by name, is decidedly the favourite. He is, indeed, May’s 
shadow, and will walk with me whether I choose or not. It is quite 
impossible to get rid of him unless by discarding Miss May also; 

25 


OUR VILLAGE 


— and to accomplish a walk in the country without her, would be 
like an adventure of Don Quixote without his faithful ’squire Sancho. 

So forth we set, May and I, and Saladin and the brindle; May 
and myself walking with the sedateness and decorum befitting our 
sex and age (she is five years old this grass, rising six) — the young 
things, for the soldan and the brindle are (not meaning any disre¬ 
spect) little better than puppies, frisking and frolicking as best 
pleased them. 

Our route lay for the first part along the sheltered quiet lanes 
which lead to our old habitation; a way never trodden by me without 
peculiar and homelike feelings, full of the recollections, the pains and 
pleasures, of other days. But we are not to talk sentiment now; — 
even May would not understand that maudlin language. We must 
get on. What a wintry hedgerow this is for the eighteenth of April! 
Primrosy to be sure, abundantly spangled with those stars of the 
earth, — but so bare, so leafless, so cold! The wind whistles 
through the brown boughs as in winter. Even the early elder shoots, 
which do make an approach to springiness, look brown, and the 
small leaves of the woodbine, which have also ventured to peep 
forth, are of a sad purple, frost-bitten, like a dairymaid’s elbows on a 
snowy morning. The very birds, in this season of pairing and build¬ 
ing, look chilly and uncomfortable, and their nests! — “Oh, 
Saladin! come away from the hedge! Don’t you see that what 
puzzles you and makes you leap up in the air is a redbreast’s nest ? 
Don’t you see the pretty speckled eggs ? Don’t you hear the poor 
hen calling as it were for help? Come here this moment, sir!” 
And by good luck Saladin (who for a paynim has tolerable qualities) 
comes, before he has touched the nest, or before his playmate the 
brindle, the less manageable of the two, has espied it. 

Now we go round the corner and cross the bridge, where the 
common, with its clear stream winding between clumps of elms, 
assumes so park-like an appearance. Who is this approaching so 
slowly and majestically, this square bundle of petticoat and cloak, 
this road-waggon of a woman ? It is, it must be Mrs Sally Mearing, 
the completest specimen within my knowledge of farmeresses (may 
I be allowed that innovation in language ?) as they were. It can be 
nobody else. 

Mrs Sally Mearing, when I first became acquainted with her, 
occupied, together with her father (a superannuated man of ninety), 
a large farm very near our former habitation. It had been anciently 

26 


OUR VILLAGE 


a great manor-farm or court-house, and was still a stately, sub¬ 
stantial building, whose lofty halls and spacious chambers gave an 
air of grandeur to the common offices to which they were applied. 
Traces of gilding might yet be seen on the panels which covered the 
walls, and on the huge carved chimney-pieces which rose almost to 
the ceilings : and the marble tables and the inlaid oak staircase still 
spoke of the former grandeur of the court. Mrs Sally corresponded 
well with the date of her mansion, although she troubled herself little 
with its dignity. She was thoroughly of the old school, and had a 
most comfortable contempt for the new: rose at four in winter and 
summer, breakfasted at six, dined at eleven in the forenoon, supped 
at five, and was regularly in bed before eight, except when the hay¬ 
time or the harvest imperiously required her to sit up till sunset, — 
a necessity to which she submitted with no very good grace. To a 
deviation from these hours, and to the modern iniquities of white 
aprons, cotton stockings, and muslin handkerchiefs (Mrs Sally her¬ 
self always wore check, black worsted, and a sort of yellow com¬ 
pound which she was wont to call susy), together with the invention 
of drill plough and thrashing-machines, and other agricultural 
novelties, she failed not to attribute all the mishaps or misdoings 
of the whole parish. The last-mentioned discovery especially 
aroused her indignation. Oh to hear her descant on the merits of 
the flail, wielded by a stout right arm, such as she had known in her 
youth (for by her account there was as great a deterioration in bones 
and sinews as in the other implements of husbandry), was enough to 
make the very inventor break his machine. She would even take 
up her favourite instrument, and thrash the air herself by way of 
illustrating her argument, and, to say truth, few men in these de¬ 
generate days could have matched the stout, brawny, muscular limb 
which Mrs Sally displayed at sixty-five. 

In spite of this contumacious rejection of agricultural improve¬ 
ments, the world went well with her at Court Farm. A good land¬ 
lord, an easy rent, incessant labour, unremitting frugality, and ex¬ 
cellent times, insured a regular though moderate profit; and she 
lived on, grumbling and prospering, flourishing and complaining, 
till two misfortunes befell her at once — her father died, and her 
lease expired. The loss of her father, although a bedridden man, 
turned of ninety, who could not in the course of nature have been 
expected to live long, was a terrible shock to a daughter who was 
not so much younger as to be without fears for her own life, and who 

27 


OUR VILLAGE 


had besides been so used to nursing the good old man, and looking 
to his little comforts, that she missed him as a mother would miss an 
ailing child. The expiration of the lease was a grievance and a 
puzzle of a different nature. Her landlord would have willingly 
retained his excellent tenant, but not on the terms on which she then 
held the land, which had not varied for fifty years; so that poor 
Mrs Sally had the misfortune to find rent rising and prices sinking 
both at the same moment — a terrible solecism in political economy. 
Even this, however, I believe she would have endured, rather than 
have quitted the house where she was born, and to which all her 
ways and notions were adapted, had not a priggish steward, as much 
addicted to improvement and reform as she was to precedent and 
established usages, insisted on binding her by lease to spread a cer¬ 
tain number of loads of chalk on every field. This tremendous 
innovation, for never had that novelty in manure whitened the crofts 
and pightles of Court Farm, decided her at once. She threw the 
proposals into the fire, and left the place in a week. 

Her choice of a habitation occasioned some wonder, and much 
amusement in our village world. To be sure, upon the verge of 
seventy, an old maid may be permitted to dispense with the more 
rigid punctilio of her class, but Mrs Sally had always been so tena¬ 
cious on the score of character, so very a prude, so determined an 
avoider of the “men folk” (as she was wont contemptuously to call 
them), that we all were conscious of something like astonishment, on 
finding that she and her little handmaid had taken up their abode 
in one end of a spacious farmhouse belonging to the bluff old 
bachelor, George Robinson, of the Lea. Now Farmer Robinson 
was quite as notorious for his aversion to petticoated things, as Mrs 
Sally for her hatred to the unfeathered bipeds who wear doublet and 
hose, so that there was a little astonishment in that quarter too, and 
plenty of jests, which the honest farmer speedily silenced, by telling 
all who joked on the subject that he had given his lodger fair warn¬ 
ing, that, let people say what they would, he was quite determined 
not to marry her: so that if she had any views that way, it would be 
better for her to go elsewhere. This declaration, which must be 
admitted to have been more remarkable for frankness than civility, 
made, however, no ill impression on Mrs Sally. To the farmer’s 
she went, and at his house she lives still, with her little maid, her 
tabby cat, a decrepit sheep-dog, and much of the lumber of Court 
Farm, which she could not find in her heart to part from. There 

28 


OUR VILLAGE 


she follows her old ways and her old hours, untempted by matri¬ 
mony, and unassailed (as far as I hear) by love or by scandal, with 
no other grievance than an occasional dearth of employment for 
herself and her young lass (even pewter dishes do not always want 
scouring), and now and then a twinge of the rheumatism. 

Here she is, that good relique of the olden time — for, in spite of 
her whims and prejudices, a better and a kinder woman never lived 
— here she is, with the hood of her red cloak pulled over her close 
black bonnet, of that silk which once (it may be presumed) was 
fashionable, since it is still called mode, and her whole stout figure 
huddled up in a miscellaneous and most substantial covering of 
thick petticoats, gowns, aprons, shawls, and cloaks — a weight 
which it requires the strength of a thrasher to walk under—here she 
is, with her square honest visage, and her loud frank voice; — and 
we hold a pleasant disjointed chat of rheumatisms and early chick¬ 
ens, bad weather, and hats with feathers in them; — the last exceed¬ 
ingly sore subject being introduced by poor Jane Davis (a cousin of 
Mrs Sally), who, passing us in a beaver bonnet, on her road from 
school, stopped to drop her little curtsy, and was soundly scolded 
for her civility. Jane, who is a gentle, humble, smiling lass, about 
twelve years old, receives so many rebukes from her worthy relative, 
and bears them so meekly, that I should not wonder if they were to 
be followed by a legacy: I sincerely wish they may. Well, at last 
we said good-bye; when, on inquiring my destination, and hearing 
that I was bent to the ten-acre copse (part of the farm which she ruled 
so long), she stopped me to tell a dismal story of two sheep-stealers 
who, sixty years ago, were found hidden in that copse, and only 
taken after great difficulty and resistance, and the maiming of a 
peace-officer. — “Pray don’t go there, Miss! For mercy’s sake 
don’t be so venturesome! Think if they should kill you! ” were 
the last words of Mrs Sally. 

Many thanks for her care and kindness! But, without being at 
all foolhardy in general, I have no great fear of the sheep-stealers of 
sixty years ago. Even if they escaped hanging for that exploit, I 
should greatly doubt their being in case to attempt another. So on 
we go: down the short shady lane, and out on the pretty retired 
green, shut in by fields and hedgerows, which we must cross to 
reach the copse. How lively this green nook is to-day, half covered 
with cows, and horses, and sheep ! And how glad these frolicsome 
greyhounds are to exchange the hard gravel of the high-road for this 

2 9 


OUR VILLAGE 


pleasant short turf, which seems made for their gambols! How 
beautifully they are at play, chasing each other round and round in 
lessening circles, darting off at all kinds of angles, crossing and re¬ 
crossing May, and trying to win her sedateness into a game at romps, 
turning round on each other with gay defiance, pursuing the cows 
and the colts, leaping up as if to catch the crows in their flight; — 

all in their harmless and innocent-“Ah, wretches! villains! 

rascals! four-footed mischiefs! canine plagues! Saladin! Brin¬ 
dle!”— They are after the sheep — “Saladin, I say!” — They 
have actually singled out that pretty spotted lamb — “Brutes, if I 
catch you ! Saladin! Brindle!” We shall be taken up for sheep¬ 
stealing presently ourselves. They have chased the poor little lamb 
into a ditch, and are mounting guard over it, standing at bay. — 
“Ah, wretches, I have you now! for shame, Saladin! Get away, 
Brindle! See how good May is. Off with you, brutes! For 
shame! For shame!” and brandishing a handkerchief, which 
could hardly be an efficient instrument of correction, I succeeded in 
driving away the two puppies, who after all meant nothing more 
than play, although it was somewhat rough, and rather too much 
in the style of the old fable of the boys and the frogs. May is gone 
after them, perhaps to scold them: for she has been as grave as a 
judge during the whole proceeding, keeping ostentatiously close to 
me, and taking no part whatever in the mischief. 

The poor little pretty lamb ! here it lies on the bank quite motion¬ 
less, frightened I believe to death, for certainly those villains never 
touched it. It does not stir. Does it breathe ? Oh yes, it does! 
It is alive, safe enough. Look, it opens its eyes, and, finding the 
coast clear and its enemies far away, it springs up in a moment and 
gallops to its dam, who has stood bleating the whole time at a most 
respectful distance. Who would suspect a lamb of so much simple 
cunning ? I really thought the pretty thing was dead — and now 
how glad the ewe is to recover her curling spotted little one! How 
fluttered they look! Well! this adventure has flurried me too; 
between fright and running, I warrant you my heart beats as fast as 
the lamb’s. 

Ah ! here is the shameless villain Saladin, the cause of the commo¬ 
tion, thrusting his slender nose into my hand to beg pardon and 
make up! “Oh wickedest of soldans! Most iniquitous pagan! 
Soul of a Turk!” — but there is no resisting the good-humoured 
creature’s penitence. I must pat him. “There! there! Now 

30 


OUR VILLAGE 


we will go to the copse; I am sure we shall find no worse male¬ 
factors than ourselves — shall we, May ? — and the sooner we get 
out of sight of the sheep the better; for Brindle seems meditating 
another attack. Allons, messieurs, over this gate, across this 
meadow, and here is the copse.” 

How boldly that superb ash-tree with its fine silver bark rises from 
the bank, and what a fine entrance it makes with the holly beside it, 
which also deserves to be called a tree! But here we are in the 
copse. Ah ! only one half of the underwood was cut last year, and 
the other is at its full growth: hazel, brier, woodbine, bramble, 
forming one impenetrable thicket, and almost uniting with the 
lower branches of the elms, and oaks, and beeches, which rise at 
regular distances overhead. No foot can penetrate that dense and 
thorny entanglement; but there is a walk all round by the side of the 
wide sloping bank, walk and bank and copse carpeted with prim¬ 
roses, whose fresh and balmy odour impregnates the very air. Oh 
how exquisitely beautiful! and it is not the primroses only, those 
gems of flowers, but the natural mosaic of which they form a part; 
that network of ground-ivy, with its lilac blossoms and the subdued 
tint of its purplish leaves, those rich mosses, those enamelled wild 
hyacinths, those spotted arums, and above all those wreaths of ivy 
linking all those flowers together with chains of leaves more beauti¬ 
ful than blossoms, whose white veins seem swelling amidst the deep 
green or splendid brown; — it is the whole earth that is so beautiful! 
Never surely were primroses so richly set, and never did primroses 
better deserve such a setting. There they are of their own lovely 
yellow, the hue to which they have given a name, the exact tint of the 
butterfly that overhangs them (the first I have seen this year! can 
spring really be coming at last ?) — sprinkled here and there with 
tufts of a reddish purple, and others of the purest white, as some 
accident of soil affects that strange and inscrutable operation of 
nature, the colouring of flowers. Oh how fragrant they are, and 
how pleasant it is to sit in this sheltered copse, listening to the fine 
creaking of the wind amongst the branches, the most unearthly of 
sounds, with this gay tapestry under our feet, and the wood-pigeons 
flitting from tree to tree, and mixing the deep note of love with the 
elemental music. 

Yes! spring is coming. Wood-pigeons, butterflies, and sweet 
flowers, all give token of the sweetest of the seasons. Spring is 
coming. The hazel stalks are swelling and putting forth their pale 

31 


OUR VILLAGE 


tassels, the satin palms with their honeyed odours are out on the 
willow, and the last lingering winter berries are dropping from the 
hawthorn, and making way for the bright and blossomy leaves. 


VI. 


THE WOOD 


yfPRIL TWENTIETH. — Spring is actually come now, with 
the fulness and almost the suddenness of a northern summer. 
To-day is completely April; — clouds and sunshine, wind and 
showers; blossoms on the trees, grass in the fields, swallows by the 
ponds, snakes in the hedgerows, nightingales in the thickets, and 
cuckoos everywhere. My young friend Ellen G. is going with me 
this evening to gather wood-sorrel. She never saw that most ele¬ 
gant plant, and is so delicate an artist that the introduction will be a 
mutual benefit; Ellen will gain a subject worthy of her pencil, and 
the pretty weed will live; — no small favour to a flower almost as 
transitory as the gum cistus: duration is the only charm which it 
wants, and that Ellen will give it. The weather is, to be sure, a little 
threatening, but we are not people to mind the weather when we 
have an object in view; we shall certainly go in quest of the wood- 
sorrel, and will take May, provided we can escape May’s followers; 
for since the adventure of the lamb, Saladin has had an affair with a 
gander, furious in defence of his goslings, in which rencontre the 
gander came off conqueror; and as geese abound in the wood to 
which we are going (called by the country people the Pinge), and the 
victory may not always incline to the right side, I should be very 
sorry to lead the Soldan to fight his battles over again. We will 
take nobody but May. 

So saying, we proceeded on our way through winding lanes, be¬ 
tween hegderows tenderly green, till we reached the hatch-gate, 
with the white cottage beside it embosomed in fruit-trees, which 
forms the entrance to the Pinge, and in a moment the whole scene 
was before our eyes. 

“Is not this beautiful, Ellen?” The answer could hardly be 
other than a glowing rapid “Yes!” — A wood is generally a pretty 
place; but this wood — Imagine a smaller forest, full of glades and 

32 



OUR VILLAGE 


sheep-walks, surrounded by irregular cottages with their blooming 
orchards, a clear stream winding about the brakes, and a road inter¬ 
secting it, and giving life and light to the picture; and you will have 
a faint idea of the Pinge. Every step was opening a new point of 
view, a fresh combination of glade and path and thicket. The 
accessories too were changing every moment. Ducks, geese, pigs, 
and children, giving way, as we advanced into the wood, to sheep 
and forest ponies; and they again disappearing as we became more 
entangled in its mazes, till we heard nothing but the song of the 
nightingale, and saw only the silent flowers. 

What a piece of fairy land ! The tall elms overhead just bursting 
into tender vivid leaf, with here and there a hoary oak or a silver- 
barked beech, every twig swelling with the brown buds, and yet not 
quite stripped of the tawny foliage of autumn; tall hollies and haw¬ 
thorn beneath, with their crisp brilliant leaves mixed with the white 
blossoms of the sloe, and woven together with garlands of woodbines 
and wild-briers; — what a fairy land ! 

Primroses, cowslips, pansies, and the regular open-eyed white 
blossom of the wood anemone (or, to use the more elegant Hamp¬ 
shire name, the windflower), were set under our feet as thick as 
daisies in a meadow; but the pretty weed that we came to seek was 
coyer; and Ellen began to fear that we had mistaken the place or 
the season. — At last she had herself the pleasure of finding it under 
a brake of holly — “Oh, look! look! I am sure that this is the 
wood-sorrel! Look at the pendent white flower, shaped like a 
snowdrop and veined with purple streaks, and the beautiful trefoil 
leaves folded like a heart, — some, the young ones, so vividly yet 
tenderly green that the foliage of the elm and the hawthorn would 
show dully at their side, — others of a deeper tint, and lined, as it 
were, with a rich and changeful purple! — Don’t you see them?” 
pursued my dear young friend, who is a delightful piece of life and 
sunshine, and was half inclined to scold me for the calmness with 
which, amused by her enthusiasm, I stood listening to her ardent 
exclamations — “ Don’t you see them ? Oh how beautiful! and in 
what quantity! what profusion! See how the dark shade of the 
holly sets off the light and delicate colouring of the flower! — And 
see that other bed of them springing from the rich moss in the roots 
of that old beech-tree! Pray, let us gather some. Here are bas¬ 
kets.” So, quickly and carefully we began gathering, leaves, blos¬ 
soms, roots and all, for the plant is so fragile that it will not brook 

33 


OUR VILLAGE 


separation; — quickly and carefully we gathered, encountering 
divers petty misfortunes in spite of all our care, now caught by the 
veil in a holly bush, now hitching our shawls in a bramble, still 
gathering on, in spite of scratched fingers, till we had nearly filled 
our baskets and began to talk of our departure: — 

“ But where is May ? May! May! No going home without her. 
May! Here she comes galloping, the beauty! ” — (Ellen is almost 
as fond of May as I am.) — “What has she got in her mouth? 
that rough, round, brown substance which she touches so tenderly ? 
What can it be ? A bird’s nest ? Naughty May 1 ” 

“No! as I live, a hedgehog! Look, Ellen, how it has coiled 
itself into a thorny ball! Off with it, May! Don’t bring it to me ! ” 

-And May, somewhat reluctant to part with her prickly prize, 

however troublesome of carriage, whose change of shape seemed 
to me to have puzzled her sagacity more than any event I ever wit¬ 
nessed, for in general she has perfectly the air of understanding all 
that is going forward — May at last dropt the hedgehog; continu¬ 
ing, however, to pat it with her delicate cat-like paw, cautiously and 
daintily applied, and caught back suddenly and rapidly after every 
touch, as if her poor captive had been a red-hot coal. Finding that 
these pats entirely failed in solving the riddle (for the hedgehog 
shammed dead, like the lamb the other day, and appeared entirely 
motionless), she gave him so spirited a nudge with her pretty black 
nose, that she not only turned him over, but sent him rolling some 
little way along the turfy path, — an operation which that sagacious 
quadruped endured with the most perfect passiveness, the most ad¬ 
mirable non-resistance. No wonder that May’s discernment was 
at fault. I myself, if I had not been aware of the trick, should have 
said that the ugly rough thing which she was trundling along, like a 
bowl or a cricket-ball, was an inanimate substance, something 
devoid of sensation and of will. At last my poor pet, thoroughly 
perplexed and tired out, fairly relinquished the contest, and came 
slowly away, turning back once or twice to look at the object of her 
curiosity, as if half inclined to return and try the event of another 
shove. The sudden flight of a wood-pigeon effectually diverted her 
attention; and Ellen amused herself by fancying how the hedgehog 
was scuttling away, till our notice was also attracted by a very dif¬ 
ferent object. 

We had nearly threaded the wood, and were approaching an open 
grove of magnificent oaks on the other side, when sounds other than 

34 



OUR VILLAGE 


of nightingales burst on our ear, the deep and frequent strokes of the 
woodman’s axe, and emerging from the Pinge we discovered the 
havoc which that axe had committed. Above twenty of the finest 
trees lay stretched on the velvet turf. There they lay in every 
shape and form of devastation: some, bare trunks stripped ready 
for the timber carriage, with the bark built up in long piles at the 
side; some with the spoilers busy about them, stripping, hacking, 
hewing; others with their noble branches, their brown and fragrant 
shoots all fresh as if they were alive — majestic corses, the slain of 
to-day! The grove was like a field of battle. The young lads who 
were stripping the bark, the very children who were picking up the 
chips, seemed awed and silent, as if conscious that death was around 
them. The nightingales sang faintly and interruptedly — a few 
low frightened notes like a requiem. 

Ah! here we are at the very scene of murder, the very tree that 
they are felling; they have just hewn round the trunk with those 
slaughtering axes, and are about to saw it asunder. After all, it is 
a fine and thrilling operation, as the work of death usually is. Into 
how grand an attitude was that young man thrown as he gave the 
final strokes round the root; and how wonderful is the effect of that 
supple and apparently powerless saw, bending like a riband, and yet 
overmastering that giant of the woods, conquering and overthrowing 
that thing of life! Now it has passed half through the trunk, and 
the woodman has begun to calculate which way the tree will fall; 
he drives a wedge to direct its course; — now a few more move¬ 
ments of the noiseless saw; and then a larger wedge. See how the 
branches tremble ! Hark how the trunk begins to crack ! Another 
stroke of the huge hammer on the wedge, and the tree quivers, as 
with a mortal agony, shakes, reels, and falls. How slow, and solemn, 
and awful it is ! How like to death, to human death in its grandest 
form ! Caesar in the Capitol, Seneca in the bath, could not fall more 
sublimely than that oak. 

Even the heavens seem to sympathise with the devastation. The 
clouds have gathered into one thick low canopy, dark and vapoury 
as the smoke which overhangs London; the setting sun is just 
gleaming underneath with a dim and bloody glare, and the crimson 
rays spreading upward with a lurid and portentous grandeur, a 
subdued and dusky glow, like the light reflected on the sky from 
some vast conflagration. The deep flush fades away, and the rain 
begins to descend; and we hurry homeward rapidly, yet sadly, 

35 


OUR VILLAGE 


forgetful alike of the flowers, the hedgehog, and the wetting, thinking 
and talking only of the fallen tree. 


VII. 

THE DELL 

71 /f A V SECOND. — A delicious evening; — bright sunshine; 

Y Kx light summer air; a sky almost cloudless; and a fresh yet 
delicate verdure on the hedges and in the fields; — an evening that 
seems made for a visit to my newly-discovered haunt, the mossy 
dell, one of the most beautiful spots in the neighbourhood, which 
after passing, times out of number, the field which it terminates, we 
found out about two months ago from the accident of May’s killing 
a rabbit there. May has had a fancy for the place ever since; and 
so have I. 

Thither accordingly we bend our way; — through the village; —- 
up the hill; — along the common; — past the avenue; — across the 
bridge; and by the hill. How deserted the road is to-night! We 
have not seen a single acquaintance, except poor blind Robert, laden 
with his sack of grass plucked from the hedges, and the little boy that 
leads him. A singular division of labour! Little Jem guides 
Robert to the spots where the long grass grows, and tells him where 
it is most plentiful; and then the old man cuts it close to the roots, 
and between them they fill the sack, and sell the contents in the vil¬ 
lage. Half the cows in the street — for our baker, our wheelwright, 
and our shoemaker has each his Alderney — owe the best part of * 
their maintenance to blind Robert’s industry. 

Here we are at the entrance of the cornfield which leads to the dell, 
and which commands so fine a view of the Loddon, the mill, the 
great farm, with its picturesque outbuildings, and the range of 
woody hills beyond. It is impossible not to pause a moment at that 
gate, the landscape, always beautiful, is so suited to the season and 
the hour, — so bright, and gay, and spring-like. But May, who has 
the chance of another rabbit in her pretty head, has galloped for¬ 
ward to the dingle, and poor May, who follows me so faithfully in 
all my wanderings, has a right to a little indulgence in hers. So to 
the dingle we go. 


36 




Poor blind Robert. 








































OUR VILLAGE 


At the end of the field, which when seen from the road seems 
terminated by a thick dark coppice, we come suddenly to the edge 
of a ravine, on one side fringed with a low growth of alder, birch, 
and willow, on the other mossy, turfy, and bare, or only broken 
by bright tufts of blossomed broom. One or two old pollards 
almost conceal the winding road that leads down the descent, by 
the side of which a spring as bright as crystal runs gurgling along. 
The dell itself is an irregular piece of broken ground, in some parts 
very deep, intersected by two or three high banks of equal irregu¬ 
larity, now abrupt and bare, and rocklike, now crowned with 
tufts of the feathery willow or magnificent old thorns. Every¬ 
where the earth is covered by short, fine turf, mixed with mosses, 
soft, beautiful, and various, and embossed with the speckled leaves 
and lilac flowers of the arum, the paler blossoms of the common 
orchis, the enamelled blue of the wild hyacinth, so splendid in this 
evening light, and large tufts of oxslips and cowslips rising like 
nosegays from the short turf. 

The ground on the other side of the dell is much lower than the 
field through which we came, so that it is mainly to the labyrin¬ 
thine intricacy of these high banks that it ow r es its singular char¬ 
acter of wildness and variety. Now we seem hemmed in by those 
green cliffs, shut out from all the world, with nothing visible but 
those verdant mounds and the deep blue sky; now by some sud¬ 
den turn we get a peep at an adjoining meadow, where the sheep 
are lying, dappling its sloping surface like the small clouds on the 
summer heaven. Poor harmless, quiet creatures, how still they 
are! Some socially lying side by side; some grouped in threes 
and fours; some quite apart. Ah! there are lambs amongst 
them — pretty, pretty lambs; — nestled in by their mothers. 
Soft, quiet, sleepy things! Not all so quiet, though! There is 
a party of these young lambs as wide awake as heart can desire; 
half a dozen of them playing together, frisking, dancing, leaping, 
butting, and crying in the young voice, which is so pretty a dimin¬ 
utive of the full-grown bleat. How beautiful they are with their 
innocent spotted faces, their mottled feet, their long curly tails, 
and their light flexible forms, frolicking like so many kittens, but 
with a gentleness, an assurance of sweetness and innocence, which 
no kitten, nothing that ever is to be a cat, can have. How com¬ 
plete and perfect is their enjoyment of existence! Ah! little 
rogues! your play has been too noisy; you have awakened your 

37 


OUR VILLAGE 


mammas; and two or three of the old ewes are getting up; and 
one of them marching gravely to the troop of lambs has selected 
her own, given her a gentle butt, and trotted off; the poor rebuked 
lamb following meekly, but every now and then stopping and 
casting a longing look at its playmates; who, after a moment’s 
awed pause, had resumed their gambols; whilst the stately dame 
every now and then looked back in her turn, to see that her little 
one was following. At last she lay down, and the lamb by her 
side. I never saw so pretty a pastoral scene in my life.* 

Another turning of the dell gives a glimpse of the dark coppice 
by which it is backed, and from which we are separated by some 
marshy, rushy ground, where the springs have formed into a pool, 
and where the moor-hen loves to build her nest. Ay, there is one 
scudding away now; — I can hear her plash into the water, and 
the rustling of her wings amongst the rushes. This is the deepest 
part of the wild dingle. How uneven the ground is! Surely 
these excavations, now so thoroughly clothed with vegetation, 
must originally have been huge gravel pits; there is no other way 
of accounting for the labyrinth, for they do dig gravel in such 
capricious meanders; but the quantity seems incredible. Well! 
there is no end of guessing! We are getting amongst the springs, 

* I have seen one which affected me much more. Walking in the 
Church-lane with one of the young ladies of the vicarage, we met a large 
flock of sheep, with the usual retinue of shepherds and dogs. Lingering 
after them and almost out of sight, we encountered a straggling ewe, now 
trotting along, now walking, and every now and then stopping to look 
back, and bleating. A little behind her came a lame lamb, bleating 
occasionally, as if in answer to its dam, and doing its very best to keep up 
with her. It was a lameness of both the fore-feet; the knees were bent, 
and it seemed to walk on the very edge of the hoof — on tip-toe, if I may 
venture such an expression. My young friend thought that the lameness 
proceeded from original malformation, I am rather of opinion that it was 
accidental, and that the poor creature was wretchedly foot-sore. However 
that might be, the pain and difficulty wdth which it took every step were not 
to be mistaken; and the distress and fondness of the mother, her perplexity 
as the flock passed gradually out of sight, the effort with which the poor 
lamb contrived to keep up a sort of trot, and their mutual calls and 
lamentations were really so affecting, that Ellen and I, although not at all 
lachrymose sort of people, had much ado not to cry. We could not find a 
boy to carry the lamb, which was too big for us to manage; — but I was 
quite sure that the ewe would not desert it, and as the dark was coming 
on, we both trusted that the shepherds on folding their flock would miss 
them and return for them;— and so I am happy to say it proved. 

38 


OUR VILLAGE 


and must turn back. Round this corner, where on ledges like 
fairy terraces the orchises and arums grow, and we emerge sud¬ 
denly on a new side of the dell, just fronting the small homestead 
of our good neighbour Farmer Allen. 

This rustic dwelling belongs to what used to be called in this 
part of the country “a little bargain”: thirty or forty acres, per¬ 
haps, of arable land, which the owner and his sons cultivated 
themselves, whilst the wife and daughters assisted in the hus¬ 
bandry, and eked out the slender earnings by the produce of the • 
dairy, the poultry yard, and the orchard; — an order of cultiva¬ 
tors now passing rapidly away, but in which much of the best 
part of the English character, its industry, its frugality, its sound 
sense, and its kindness might be found. Farmer Allen himself 
is an excellent specimen, the cheerful venerable old man with his 
long white hair, and his bright grey eye, and his wife is a still 
finer. They have had a hard struggle to win through the world 
and keep their little property undivided; but good management 
and good principles, and the assistance afforded them by an ad¬ 
mirable son, who left our village a poor ’prentice boy, and is now 
a partner in a great house in London, have enabled them to over¬ 
come all the difficulties of these trying times, and they are now 
enjoying the peaceful evenings of a well-spent life as free from 
care and anxiety as their best friends could desire. 

Ah! there is Mr Allen in the orchard, the beautiful orchard, 
with its glorious gardens of pink and white, its pearly pear-blos¬ 
soms and coral apple-buds. What a flush of bloom it is! How 
brightly delicate it appears, thrown into strong relief by the dark 
house and the weather-stained barn, in this soft evening light! 
The very grass is strewed with the snowy petals of the pear and 
the cherry. And there sits Mrs Allen, feeding her poultry, with 
her three little grand-daughters from London, pretty fairies from 
three years old to five (only two-and-twenty months elapsed be¬ 
tween the birth of the eldest and the youngest) playing round her 
feet. 

Mrs Allen, my dear Mrs Allen, has been that rare thing a beauty, 
and although she be now an old woman I had almost said that 
she is so still. Why should I not say so? Nobleness of feature 
and sweetness of expression are surely as delightful in age as in 
youth. Her face and figure are much like those which are stamped 
indelibly on the memory of every one who ever saw that grand 

39 


OUR VILLAGE 


specimen of woman — Mrs Siddons. The outline of Mrs Allen’s 
face is exactly the same; but there is more softness, more gentle¬ 
ness, a more feminine composure in the eye and in the smile. 
Mrs Allen never played Lady Macbeth. Her hair, almost as black 
as at twenty, is parted on her large fair forehead, and combed 
under her exquisitely neat and snowy cap; a muslin neckerchief, 
a grey stuff gown, and a white apron complete the picture. 

There she sits under an old elder-tree which flings its branches 
over her like a canopy, whilst the setting sun illumines her ven¬ 
erable figure and touches the leaves with an emerald light; there 
she sits, placid and smiling, with her spectacles in her hand and 
a measure of barley on her lap, into which the little girls are dip¬ 
ping their chubby hands and scattering the corn amongst the 
ducks and chickens with unspeakable glee. But those ingrates 
the poultry don’t seem so pleased and thankful as they ought to 
be; they mistrust their young feeders. All domestic animals 
dislike children, partly from an instinctive fear of their tricks and 
their thoughtlessness; partly, I suspect, from jealousy. Jeal¬ 
ousy seems a strange tragic passion to attribute to the inmates 
of the basse cour, — but only look at that strutting fellow of a 
bantam cock (evidently a favourite), who sidles up to his old mis¬ 
tress with an air half affronted and half tender, turning so scorn¬ 
fully from the barley-corns which Annie is flinging towards him, 
and say if he be not as jealous as Othello? Nothing can pacify 
him but Mrs Allen’s notice and a dole from her hand. See, she 
is calling to him and feeding him, and now how he swells out his 
feathers, and flutters his wings, and erects his glossy neck, and 
struts and crows and pecks, proudest and happiest of bantams, 
the pet and glory of the poultry yard! 

In the meantime my own pet May, who has all this while been 
peeping into every hole, and penetrating every nook and winding 
of the dell, in hopes to find another rabbit, has returned to my 
side, and is sliding her snake-like head into my hand, at once to 
invite the caress which she likes so well, and to intimate, with all 
due respect, that it is time to go home. The setting sun gives 
the same warning; and in a moment we are through the dell, 
the field, and the gate, past the farm and the mill, and hanging 
over the bridge that crosses the Loddon river. 

What a sunset! how golden! how beautiful! The sun just 
disappearing, and the narrow liny clouds, which a few minutes 

40 


OUR VILLAGE 


ago lay like soft vapoury streaks along the horizon, lighted up 
with a golden splendour that the eye can scarcely endure, and 
those still softer clouds which floated above them wreathing and 
curling into a thousand fantastic forms, as thin and changeful as 
summer smoke, now defined and deepened into grandeur, and 
edged with ineffable, insufferable light! Another minute and 
the brilliant orb totally disappears, and the sky above grows every 
moment more varied and more beautiful as the dazzling golden 
lines are mixed'with glowing red and gorgeous purple, dappled 
with small dark specks, and mingled with such a blue as the egg 
of the hedge-sparrow. To look up at that glorious sky, and then 
to see that magnificent picture reflected in the clear and lovely 
Loddon water, is a pleasure never to be described and never for¬ 
gotten. My heart swells and my eyes fill as I write of it, and think 
of the immeasurable majesty of nature, and the unspeakable 
goodness of God, who has spread an enjoyment so pure, so peace¬ 
ful, and so intense before the meanest and the lowliest of His 
creatures. 


VIII. 

THE COWSLIP-BALL 

llyJ’AY SIXTEENTH .—There are moments in life when, 
1 VA without any visible or immediate cause, the spirits sink and 
fail, as it were, under the mere pressure of existence: moments of 
unaccountable depression, when one is weary of one’s very thoughts, 
haunted by images that will not depart — images many and vari¬ 
ous, but all painful; friends lost, or changed, or dead; hopes 
disappointed even in their accomplishment; fruitless regrets, 
powerless wishes, doubt and fear, and self-distrust, and self-dis¬ 
approbation. They who have known these feelings (and who is 
there so happy as not to have known some of them?) will under¬ 
stand why Alfieri became powerless, and Froissart dull; and 
why even needle-work, the most effectual sedative, that grand 
soother and composer of woman’s distress, fails to comfort me 
to-day. I will go out into the air this cool, pleasant afternoon, 
and try what that will do. I fancy that exercise or exertion of 
any kind, is the true specific for nervousness. “ Fling but a stone, 

41 



OUR VILLAGE 


the giant dies.” I will go to the meadows, the beautiful meadows! 
and I will have my materials of happiness, Lizzy and May, and a 
basket for flowers, and we will make a cowslip-ball. “Did you 
ever see a cowslip-ball, my Lizzy?” — “No.” — “Come away, 
then; make haste! run, Lizzy!” 

And on we go fast, fast! down the road, across the lea, past the 
workhouse, along by the great pond, till we slide into the deep nar¬ 
row lane, whose hedges seem to meet over the water, and win our 
way to the little farmhouse at the end. “Through the farmyard, 
Lizzy; over the gate; never mind the cows; they are quiet enough.” 
— “I don’t mind ’em,” said Miss Lizzy, boldly and truly, and 
with a proud affronted air, displeased at being thought to mind 
anything, and showing by her attitude and manner some design 
of proving her courage by an attack on the largest of the herd, in 
the shape of a pull by the tail. “I don’t mind ’em.” — “I know 
you don’t, Lizzy; but let them alone, and don’t chase the turkey- 
cock. Come to me, my dear! ” and, for a wonder, Lizzy came. 

In the meantime, my other pet, Mayflower, had also gotten into 
a scrape. She had driven about a huge unwieldy sow, till the 
animal’s grunting had disturbed the repose of a still more enor¬ 
mous Newfoundland dog, the guardian of the yard. Out he sallied, 
growling, from the depth of his kennel, erecting his tail, and shak¬ 
ing his long chain. May’s attention was instantly diverted from 
the sow to this new playmate, friend or foe, she cared not which; 
and he of the kennel, seeing his charge unhurt, and out of danger, 
was at leisure to observe the charms of his fair enemy, as she 
frolicked round him, always beyond the reach of his chain, yet 
always, with the natural instinctive coquetry of her sex, alluring 
him to the pursuit which she knew to be vain. I never saw a 
prettier flirtation. At last the noble animal, wearied out, retired 
to the inmost recesses of his habitation, and would not even ap¬ 
proach her when she stood right before the entrance. “You are 
properly served, May. Come along, Lizzy. Across this wheat- 
field, and now over the gate. Stop! let me lift you down. No 
jumping, no breaking of necks, Lizzy!” And here we are in the 
meadows, and out of the world. Robinson Crusoe, in his lonely 
island, had scarcely a more complete, or a more beautiful soli¬ 
tude. 

These meadows consist of a double row of small enclosures of 
rich grass-land, a mile or two in length, sloping down from high 

42 


OUR VILLAGE 


arable grounds on either side, to a little nameless brook that winds 
between them with a course which, in its infinite variety, clear¬ 
ness, and rapidity, seems to emulate the bold rivers of the north, 
of whom, far more than of our lazy southern streams, our rivulet 
presents a miniature likeness. Never was water more exquisitely 
tricksy: — now darting over the bright pebbles, sparkling and 
flashing in the light with a bubbling music, as sweet and wild as 
the song of the woodlark; now stretching quietly along, giving 
back the rich tufts of the golden marsh-marigolds which grow on 
its margin; now sweeping round a fine reach of green grass, ris¬ 
ing steeply into a high mound, a mimic promontory, whilst the 
other side sinks softly away, like some tiny bay, and the water 
flows between, so clear, so wide, so shallow, that Lizzy, longing 
for adventure, is sure she could cross unwetted; now dashing 
through two sand-banks, a torrent deep and narrow, which May 
clears at a bound; now sleeping, half hidden, beneath the alders, 
and hawthorns, and wild roses, with which the banks are so pro¬ 
fusely and variously fringed, whilst flags,* lilies, and other aquatic 
plants, almost cover the surface of the stream. In good truth, 
it is a beautiful brook, and one that Walton himself might have 
sitten by and loved, for trout are there; we see them as they dart 
up the stream, and hear and start at the sudden plunge when they 
spring to the surface for the summer flies. Izaak Walton would 
have loved our brook and our quiet meadows; they breathe the 
very spirit of his own peacefulness, a soothing quietude that sinks 
into the soul. There is no path through them, not one; we might 
wander a whole spring day, and not see a trace of human habita¬ 
tion. They belong to a number of small proprietors, who allow 

* Walking along these meadows one bright sunny afternoon, a year or 
two back, and rather later in the season, I had an opportunity of noticing a 
curious circumstance in natural history. Standing close to the edge of the 
stream, I remarked a singular appearance on a large tuft of flags. It 
looked like bunches of flowers, the leaves of which seemed dark, yet 
transparent, intermingled with brilliant tubes of bright blue or shining 
green. On examining this phenomenon more closely, it turned out to be 
several clusters of dragon-flies, just emerged from their deformed chrysalis 
state, and still torpid and motionless from the wetness of their filmy wings. 
Half an hour later we returned to the spot and they were gone. We had 
seen them at the very moment when beauty was complete and animation 
dormant. I have since found nearly a similar account of this curious process 
in Mr Bingley’s very entertaining work, called Animal Biography. 

43 


OUR VILLAGE 


each other access through their respective grounds, from pure 
kindness and neighbourly feeling; a privilege never abused: and 
the fields on the other side of the water are reached by a rough 
plank, or a tree thrown across, or some such homely bridge. We 
ourselves possess one of the most beautiful; so that the strange 
pleasure of property, that instinct which makes Lizzy delight in 
her broken doll, and May in the bare bone which she has pilfered 
from the kennel of her recreant admirer of Newfoundland, is 
added to the other charms of this enchanting scenery; a strange 
pleasure it is, when one so poor as I can feel it! Perhaps it is 
felt most by the poor, with the rich it may be less intense — too 
much diffused and spread out, becoming thin by expansion, like 
leaf-gold; the little of the poor may be not only more precious, 
but more pleasant to them: certain that bit of grassy and blos¬ 
somy earth, with its green knolls and tufted bushes, its old pollards 
wreathed with ivy, and its bright and babbling waters, is very 
dear to me. But I must always have loved these meadows, so 
fresh, and cool, and delicious to the eye and to the tread, full of 
cowslips, and of all vernal flowers: Shakspeare’s Song of Spring 
bursts irrepressibly from our lips as we step on them. 

“When daisies pied and violets blue 
And lady-smocks all silver-white 
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue 

Do paint the meadows with delight, 

The cuckoo then, on every tree — ” 

“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” cried Lizzy, breaking in with her clear child¬ 
ish voice; and immediately, as if at her call, the real bird, from a 
neighbouring tree (for these meadows are dotted with timber like 
a park), began to echo my lovely little girl, “cuckoo! cuckoo!” 
I have a prejudice very unpastoral and unpoetical (but I cannot 
help it, I have many such) against this “harbinger of spring.” 
His note is so monotonous, so melancholy; and then the boys 
mimic him; one hears “cuckoo! cuckoo!” in dirty streets, 
amongst smoky houses, and the bird is hated for faults not his 
own. But prejudices of taste, likings and dislikings, are not 
always vanquishable by reason; so, to escape the serenade from 
the tree, which promised to be of considerable duration (when 
once that eternal song begins, on it goes ticking like a clock) 
— to escape that noise I determined to excite another, and 

44 


OUR VILLAGE 


challenged Lizzy to a cowslip-gathering; a trial of skill and 
speed, to see which should soonest fill her basket. My strata¬ 
gem succeeded completely. What scrambling, what shouting, 
what glee from Lizzy! twenty cuckoos might have sung un¬ 
heard whilst she was pulling her own flowers, and stealing mine, 
and laughing, screaming, and talking through all. 

At last the baskets were filled, and Lizzy declared victor: and 
down we sat, on the brink of the stream, under a spreading haw¬ 
thorn, just disclosing its own pearly buds, and surrounded with 
the rich and enamelled flowers of the wild hyacinth, blue and 
white, to make our cowslip-ball. Every one knows the process: 
to nip off the tuft of flowerets just below the top of the stalk, and 
hang each cluster nicely balanced across a riband, till you have a 
long string like a garland; then to press them closely together, 
and tie them tightly up. We went on very prosperously, consid¬ 
ering; as people say of a young lady’s drawing, or a Frenchman’s 
English, or a woman’s tragedy, or of the poor little dwarf who 
works without fingers, or the ingenious sailor who writes with his 
toes, or generally of any performance which is accomplished by 
means seemingly inadequate to its production. To be sure we 
met with a few accidents. First, Lizzy spoiled nearly all her cow¬ 
slips by snapping them off too short; so there was a fresh gather¬ 
ing; in the next place, May overset my full basket, and sent the 
blossoms floating, like so many fairy favours, down the brook; 
then, when we were going on pretty steadily, just as we had made 
a superb wreath, and were thinking of tying it together, Lizzy, 
who held the riband, caught a glimpse of a gorgeous butterfly, 
all brown and red and purple, and, skipping off to pursue the new 
object, let go her hold; so all our treasures were abroad again. 
At last, however, by dint of taking a branch of alder as a substi¬ 
tute for Lizzy, and hanging the basket in a pollard-ash, out of 
sight of May, the cowslip-ball was finished. What a concentration 
of fragrance and beauty it was! golden and sweet to satiety! 
rich to sight, and touch, and smell! Lizzy was enchanted, and 
ran off with her prize, hiding amongst the trees in the very coy¬ 
ness of ecstasy, as if any human eye, even mine, would be a re¬ 
straint on her innocent raptures. 

In the meanwhile I sat listening, not to my enemy the cuckoo, 
but to a whole concert of nightingales, scarcely interrupted by any 
meaner bird, answering and vying with each other in those short 

45 


OUR VILLAGE 


delicious strains which are to the ear as roses to the eye: those 
snatches of lovely sound which come across us as airs from heaven. 
Pleasant thoughts, delightful associations, awoke as I listened; 
and almost unconsciously I repeated to myself the beautiful story 
of the Lutist and the Nightingale, from Ford’s Lover's Melan¬ 
choly. Here it is. Is there in English poetry anything finer ? 

“ Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales 
Which poets of an elder time have feign’d 
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me 
Desire of visiting Paradise. 

To Thessaly I came, and living private, 

Without acquaintance of more sweet companions 
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, 

I day by day frequented silent groves 
And solitary walks. One morning early 
This accident encounter’d me : I heard 
The sweetest and most ravishing contention 
That art and nature ever were at strife in. 

A sound of music touch’d mine ears, or rather 
Indeed entranced my soul; as I stole nearer, 

Invited by the melody, I saw 
This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute 
With strains of strange variety and harmony 
Proclaiming, as it seem’d, so bold a challenge 
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds, 

That as they flock’d about him, all stood silent, 

Wondering at what they heard. I wonder’d too. 

A nightingale, 

Nature’s best skill’d musician, undertakes 

The challenge; and for every several strain 

The well-shaped youth could touch, she sang him down. 

He could not run divisions with more art 
Upon his quaking instrument than she, 

The nightingale, did with her various notes 
Reply to. 

Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last 
Into a pretty anger, that a bird, 

Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes 
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study 
Had busied many hours to perfect practice. 

To end the controversy, in a rapture 
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, 


OUR VILLAGE 


So many voluntaries, and so quick, * . 

That there was curiosity and cunning, 

Concord in discord, lines of differing method 
Meeting in one full centre of delight. 

The bird (ordain’d to be ' 

Music’s first martyr) strove to imitate 

These several sounds; which when her warbling throat 

Fail’d in, for grief down dropt she on his lute, 

And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness 
To see the conqueror upon her hearse 
To weep a funeral elegy of tears. 

He look’d upon the trophies of his art, 

Then sigh’d, then wiped his eyes ; then sigh’d, and cry’d 
1 Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge 
This cruelty upon the author of it. 

Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, 

Shall never more betray a harmless peace 
To an untimely end: ’ and in that sorrow, 

As he was pashing it against a tree, 

I suddenly stept in.” 

When I had finished the recitation of this exquisite passage, 
the sky, which had been all the afternoon dull and heavy, began 
to look more and more threatening; darker clouds, like wreaths 
of black smoke, flew across the dead leaden tint; a cooler, damper 
air blew over the meadows, and a few large heavy drops splashed 
in the water. “We shall have a storm. Lizzy! May! where 
are ye? Quick, quick, my Lizzy! run, run! faster, faster!” 

And off we ran; Lizzy not at all displeased at the thoughts of 
a wetting, to which indeed she is almost as familiar as a duck; 
May, on the other hand, peering up at the weather, and shaking 
her pretty ears with manifest dismay. Of all animals, next to a 
cat, a greyhound dreads rain. She might have escaped it; her 
light feet would have borne her home long before the shower; 
but May is too faithful for that, too true a comrade, understands 
too well the laws of good-fellowship; so she waited for us. She 
did, to be sure, gallop on before, and then stop and look back, 
and beckon, as it were, with some scorn in her black eyes at the 
slowness of our progress. We in the meanwhile got on as fast as 
we could, encouraging and reproaching each other. “Faster, 
my Lizzy! Oh, what a bad runner!” — “Faster, faster! Oh, 
what a bad runner!” echoed my saucebox. “You are so fat, 

47 


OUR VILLAGE 


Lizzy, you make no way!”—“Ah! who else is fat?” retorted 
the darling. Certainly her mother is right; I do spoil that child. 

By this time we were thoroughly soaked, all three. It was a pelt¬ 
ing shower, that drove through our thin summer clothing and poor 
May’s short glossy coat in a moment. And then, when we were wet 
to the skin, the sun came out, actually the sun, as if to laugh at our 
plight; and then, more provoking still, when the sun was shining, 
and the shower over, came a maid and a boy to look after us, loaded 
with cloaks and umbrellas enough to fence us against a whole day’s 
rain. Never mind ! on we go, faster and faster; Lizzy obliged to 
be most ignobly carried, having had the misfortune to lose a shoe in 
the mud, which we left the boy to look after. 

Here we are at home — dripping; but glowing and laughing, and 
bearing our calamity most manfully. May, a dog of excellent sense, 
went instantly to bed in the stable, and is at this moment over head 
and ears in straw; Lizzy is gone to bed too, coaxed into that wise 
measure by a promise of tea and toast, and of not going home till 
to-morrow, and the story of Little Red Riding Hood; and I am en¬ 
joying the luxury of dry clothing by a good fire. Really getting wet 
through now and then is no bad thing, finery apart; for one should 
not like spoiling a new pelisse, or a handsome plume; but when there 
is nothing in question but a white gown and a straw bonnet, as was 
the case to-day, it is rather pleasant than not. The little chill re¬ 
freshes, and our enjoyment of the subsequent warmth and dryness 
is positive and absolute. Besides, the stimulus and exertion do good 
to the mind as well as body. How melancholy I was all the morning! 
how cheerful I am now! Nothing like a shower-bath — a real 
shower-bath, such as Lizzy and May and I have undergone, to cure 
low spirits. Try it, my dear readers, if ever ye be nervous — I will 
answer for its success. 


IX. 


THE OLD HOUSE AT ABERLEIGH 


r^/UNE TWENTY-FIFTH. —What a glowing glorious day! 
T Summer in its richest prime, noon in its most sparkling bright- 
ness, little white clouds dappling the deep blue sky, and the 
sun, now partially veiled, and now bursting through them with an 

48 



OUR VILLAGE 


intensity of light! It would not do to walk to-day, professedly to 
walk, we should be frightened at the very sound! and yet it is 
probable that we may be beguiled into a pretty long stroll before we 
return home. We are going to drive to the old house at Aberleigh, 
to spend the morning under the shade of those balmy firs, and 
amongst those luxuriant rose trees, and by the side of that brimming 
Loddon river. “Do not expect us before six o’clock,” said I, as I 
left the house; “Six at soonest!” added my charming companion; 
and off we drove in our little pony chaise, drawn by our old mare, 
and with the good-humoured urchin, Henry’s successor, a sort of 
younger Scrub, who takes care of horse and chaise, and cow and 
garden, for our charioteer. 

My comrade in this homely equipage was a young lady of high 
family and higher endowments, to whom the novelty of the thing, 
and her own naturalness of character and simplicity of taste, gave an 
unspeakable enjoyment. She danced the little chaise up and down 
as she got into it, and laughed for very glee like a child; Lizzy herself 
could not have been more delighted. She praised the horse and the 
driver, and the roads and the scenery, and gave herself fully up to the 
enchantment of a rural excursion in the sweetest weather of this 
sweet season. I enjoyed all this too; for the road was pleasant to 
every sense, winding through narrow lanes, under high elms, and 
between hedges garlanded with woodbine and rose trees, whilst the 
air was scented with the delicious fragrance of blossomed beans. I 
enjoyed it all, — but, I believe, my principal pleasure was derived 
from my companion herself. 

Emily I. is a person whom it is a privilege to know. She is quite 
like a creation of the older poets, and might pass for one of Shak- 
speare’s or Fletcher’s women stepped into life; just as tender, as 
playful, as gentle, and as kind. She is clever too, and has all the 
knowledge and accomplishments that a carefully-conducted edu¬ 
cation, acting on a mind of singular clearness and ductility, matured 
and improved by the very best company, can bestow. But one 
never thinks of her acquirements. It is the charming artless char¬ 
acter, the bewitching sweetness of manner, the real and universal 
sympathy, the quick taste and the ardent feeling, that one loves in 
Emily. She is Irish by birth, and has in perfection the melting 
voice and soft caressing accent by which her fair countrywomen are 
distinguished. Moreover she is pretty — I think her beautiful, and 
so do all who have heard as well as seen her, — but pretty, very 

49 


OUR VILLAGE 


pretty, all the world must confess; and perhaps that is a distinction 
more enviable, because less envied, than the “palmy state” of 
beauty. Her prettiness is of the prettiest kind — that of which the 
chief character is youthfulness. A short but pleasing figure, all 
grace and symmetry, a fair blooming face, beaming with intelligence 
and good-humour; the prettiest little feet and the whitest hands in 
the world; — such is Emily I. 

She resides with her maternal grandmother, a venerable old lady, 
slightly shaken with the palsy; and when together (and they are 
so fondly attached to each other that they are seldom parted), it is 
one of the loveliest combinations of youth and age ever witnessed. 
There is no seeing them without feeling an increase of respect and 
affection for both grandmother and granddaughter — always one 
of the tenderest and most beautiful of natural connections — as 
Richardson knew when he made such exquisite use of it in his match¬ 
less book. I fancy that grandmamma Shirley must have been just 
such another venerable lady as Mrs S. and our sweet Emily — Oh 
no! Harriet Byron is not half good enough for her! There is 
nothing like her in the whole seven volumes. 

But here we are at the bridge ! Here we must alight! “This is 
the Loddon, Emily. Is it not a beautiful river ? rising level with its 
banks, so clear, and smooth, and peaceful, giving back the verdant 
landscape and the bright blue sky, and bearing on its pellucid stream 
the snowy water-lily, the purest of flowers, which sits enthroned on 
its own cool leaves, looking chastity itself, like the lady in Comus. 
That queenly flower becomes the water, and so do the stately swans 
who are sailing so majestically down the stream, like those who 

“ ‘ On St Mary’s lake 
Float double, swan and shadow.’ 

We must dismount here, and leave Richard to take care of our 
equipage under the shade of these trees, whilst we walk up to the 
house: — See there it is! We must cross this stile; there is no 
other way now.” 

And crossing the stile we were immediately in what had been a 
drive round a spacious park, and still retained something of the 
character, though the park itself had long been broken into arable 
fields, — and in full view of the Great House, a beautiful structure 
of James the First’s time, whose glassless windows and dilapidated 

50 


OUR VILLAGE 


doors form a melancholy contrast with the strength and entireness 
of the rich and massive front. 

The story of that ruin — for such it is — is always to me singu¬ 
larly affecting. It is that of the decay of an ancient and distin¬ 
guished family, gradually reduced from the highest wealth and 
station to actual poverty. The house and park, and a small estate 
around it, were entailed on a distant cousin, and could not be alien¬ 
ated ; and the late owner, the last of his name and lineage, after long 
struggling with debt and difficulty, farming his own lands, and cling¬ 
ing to his magnificent home with a love of place almost as tenacious 
as that of the younger Foscari, was at last forced to abandon it, re¬ 
tired to a paltry lodging in a paltry town, and died there about 
twenty years ago, broken-hearted. His successor, bound by no ties 
of association to the spot, and rightly judging the residence to be 
much too large for the diminished estate, immediately sold the 
superb fixtures, and would have entirely taken down the house, if, 
on making the attempt, the masonry had not been found so solid that 
the materials were not worth the labour. A great part, however, 
of one side is laid open, and the splendid chambers, with their carv¬ 
ing and gilding, are exposed to the wind and rain — sad memorials of 
past grandeur! The grounds have been left in a merciful neglect; 
the park, indeed, is broken up, the lawn mown twice a year like a 
common hay-field, the grotto mouldering into ruin, and the fish¬ 
ponds choked with rushes and aquatic plants; but the shrubs and 
flowering trees are undestroyed, and have grown into a magnificence 
of size and wildness of beauty, such as we may imagine them to 
attain in their native forests. Nothing can exceed their luxuriance, 
especially in the spring, when the lilac, and laburnum, and double¬ 
cherry put forth their gorgeous blossoms. There is a sweet sadness 
in the sight of such floweriness amidst such desolation; it seems the 
triumph of nature over the destructive power of man. The whole 
place, in that season more particularly, is full of a soft and soothing 
melancholy, reminding me, I scarcely know why, of some of the 
descriptions of natural scenery in the novels of Charlotte Smith, 
which I read when a girl, and which, perhaps, for that reason hang 
on my memory. 

But here we are, in the smooth grassy ride, on the top of a steep 
turfy slope descending to the river, crowned with enormous firs and 
limes of equal growth, looking across the winding waters into a sweet 
peaceful landscape of quiet meadows, shut in by distant woods. 

51 


OUR VILLAGE 


What a fragrance is in the air from the balmy fir trees and the blos¬ 
somed limes ! What an intensity of odour! And what a murmur 
of bees in the lime trees! What a coil those little winged people 
make over our heads! And what a pleasant sound it is! the 
pleasantest of busy sounds, that which comes associated with 
all that is good and beautiful — industry and forecast, and 
sunshine and flowers. Surely these lime trees might store a 
hundred hives; the very odour is of a honeyed richness, cloying, 
satiating. 

Emily exclaimed in admiration as we stood under the deep, 
strong, leafy shadow, and still more when honeysuckles trailed 
their untrimmed profusion in our path, and roses, really trees, 
almost intercepted our passage. 

“ On, Emily! farther yet! Force your way by that jessamine — 
it will yield; I will take care of this stubborn white rose bough.” — 
“Take care of yourself! Pray take care,” said my fairest friend; 
“let me hold back the branches.” — After we had won our way 
through the strait, at some expense of veils and flounces, she stopped 
to contemplate and admire the tall, graceful shrub, whose long 
thorny stems, spreading in every direction, had opposed our progress, 
and now waved their delicate clusters over our heads. “ Did I ever 
think,” exclaimed she, “of standing under the shadow of a white 
rose tree! What an exquisite fragrance! And what a beautiful 
flower! so pale, and white, and tender, and the petals thin and 
smooth as silk ! What rose is it ? ” — “ Don’t you know ? Did you 
never see it before ? It is rare now, I believe, and seems rarer than 
it is, because it only blossoms in very hot summers; but this, Emily, 
is the musk rose, — that very musk rose of which Titania talks, and 
which is worthy of Shakspeare and of her. Is it not ? — No ? do 
not smell to it; it is less sweet so than other roses; but one cluster in 
a vase, or even that bunch in your bosom, will perfume a large room, 
as it does the summer air.” — “Oh ! we will take twenty clusters,” 
said Emily. “I wish grandmamma were here! She talks so often 
of a musk rose tree that grew against one end of her father’s house. 
I wish she were here to see this! ” 

Echoing her wish, and well laden with musk roses, planted per¬ 
haps in the days of Shakspeare, we reached the steps that led to a 
square summer-house or banqueting-room, overhanging the river: 
the under part was a boat-house, whose projecting roof, as well 
as the walls and the very top of the little tower, was covered 

52 


OUR VILLAGE 


with ivy and woodbine, and surmounted by tufted barberries, 
bird cherries, acacias, covered with their snowy chains, and 
other pendent and flowering trees. Beyond rose two poplars 
of unrivalled magnitude, towering like stately columns over the 
dark tall firs, and giving a sort of pillared and architectural 
grandeur to the scene. 

We were now close to the mansion; but it looked sad and desolate, 
and the entrance, choked with brambles and nettles, seemed almost 
to repel our steps. The summer-house, the beautiful summer¬ 
house, was free and open, and inviting, commanding from the un¬ 
glazed windows, which hung high above the water, a reach of the 
river terminated by a rustic mill. 

There we sat, emptying our little basket of fruit and country cakes, 
till Emily was seized with a desire of viewing, from the other side of 
the Loddon, the scenery which had so much enchanted her. “1 
must,” said she, “take a sketch of the ivied boat-house, and of this 
sweet room, and this pleasant window; — grandmamma would 
never be able to walk from the road to see the place itself, but she 
must see its likeness.” So forth we sallied, not forgetting the dear 
musk roses. 

We had no way of reaching the desired spot but by retracing our 
steps a mile, during the heat of the hottest hour of the day, and then 
following the course of the river to an equal distance on the other 
side; nor had we any materials for sketching, except the rumpled 
paper which had contained our repast, and a pencil without a point 
which I happened to have about me. But these small difficulties 
are pleasures to gay and happy youth. Regardless of such obstacles, 
the sweet Emily bounded on like a fawn, and I followed delighting 
in her delight. The sun went in, and the walk was delicious; a 
reviving coolness seemed to breathe over the water, wafting the 
balmy scent of the firs and limes; we found a point of view present¬ 
ing the boat-house, the water, the poplars, and the mill, in a most 
felicitous combination; the little straw fruit basket made a capital 
table; and refreshed and sharpened and pointed by our trusty 
lacquey’s excellent knife (your country boy is never without a good 
knife, it is his prime treasure), the pencil did double duty; — first in 
the skilful hands of Emily, whose faithful and spirited sketch does 
equal honour to the scene and to the artist, and then in the humbler 
office of attempting a faint transcript of my own impressions in the 
following sonnet: — 


53 


OUR VILLAGE 


It was an hour of calmest noon, at day 

Of ripest summer : o’er the deep blue sky 
White speckled clouds came sailing peacefully 
Half-shrouding in a chequer’d veil the ray 
Of the sun, too ardent else, — what time we lay 
By the smooth Loddon, opposite the high 
Steep bank, which as a coronet gloriously 
Wore its rich crest of firs and lime trees, gay 

With their pale tassels ; while from out a bower 
Of ivy (where those column’d poplars rear 

Their heads) the ruin’d boat-house, like a tower, 
Flung its deep shadow on the waters clear. 

My Emily! forget not that calm hour, 

Nor that fair scene, by thee made doubly dear! 


X. 


THE HARD SUMMER 


/1UGVST FIFTEENTH. — Cold, cloudy, windy, wet. Here 
we are, in the midst of the dog-days, clustering merrily round 
the warm hearth like so many crickets, instead of chirruping in the 
green fields like that other merry insect the grasshopper; shivering 
under the influence of the Jupiter Pluvius of England, the watery 
St Swithin; peering at that scarce personage the sun, when he hap¬ 
pens to make his appearance, as intently as astronomers look after 
a comet, or the common people stare at a balloon; exclaiming 
against the cold weather, just as we used to exclaim against the 
warm. “What a change from last year!” is the first sentence you 
hear, go where you may. Everybody remarks it, and everybody 
complains of it; and yet in my mind it has its advantages, or at least 
its compensations, as everything in nature has, if we would only take 
the trouble to seek for them. 

Last year, in spite of the love which we are now pleased to profess 
towards that ardent luminary, not one of the sun’s numerous ad¬ 
mirers had courage to look him in the face: there was no bearing the 
world till he had said “Good-night” to it. Then we might stir: 
then we began to wake and to live. All day long we languished 
under his influence in a strange dreaminess, too hot to work, too hot 

54 



OUR VILLAGE 


to read, too hot to write, too hot even to talk; sitting hour after hour 
in a green arbour, embowered in leafiness, letting thought and fancy 
float as they would. Those day-dreams were pretty things in their 
way; there is no denying that. But then, if one half of the world 
were to dream through a whole summer, like the sleeping Beauty 
in the wood, what would become of the other? 

The only office requiring the slightest exertion, which I performed 
in that warm weather, was watering my flowers. Common sym¬ 
pathy called for that labour. The poor things withered, and faded, 
and pined away; they almost, so to say, panted for drought. More¬ 
over, if I had not watered them myself, I suspect that no one else 
would; for water last year was nearly as precious hereabout as wine. 
Our land-springs were dried up; our wells were exhausted; our 
deep ponds were dwindling into mud; and geese, and ducks, and 
pigs, and laundresses, used to look with a jealous and suspicious eye 
on the few and scanty half-buckets of that impure element, which my 
trusty lacquey was fain to filch for my poor geraniums and cam¬ 
panulas and tuberoses. We were forced to smuggle them in 
through my faithful adherent’s territories, the stable, to avoid lec¬ 
tures within doors; and at last even that resource failed; my gar¬ 
den, my blooming garden, the joy of my eyes, was forced to go 
waterless like its neighbours, and became shrivelled, scorched, and 
sunburnt, like them. It really went to my heart to look at it. 

On the other side of the house matters were still worse. What a 
dusty world it was, when about sunset we became cool enough to 
creep into it! Flowers in the court looking fit for a hortus siccus; 
mummies of plants, dried as in an oven; hollyhocks, once pink, 
turned into Quakers; cloves smelling of dust. Oh, dusty world! 
May herself looked of that complexion; so did Lizzy; so did all the 
houses, windows, chickens, children, trees, and pigs in the village; 
so above all did the shoes. No foot could make three plunges into 
that abyss of pulverised gravel, which had the impudence to call 
itself a hard road, without being clothed with a coat a quarter of an 
inch thick. Woe to white gowns ! woe to black ! Drab was your 
only wear. 

Then, when we were out of the street, what a toil it was to mount 
the hill, climbing with weary steps and slow upon the brown turf by 
the wayside, slippery, hot, and hard as a rock ! And then if we hap¬ 
pened to meet a carriage coming along the middle of the road, — 
the bottomless middle, — what a sandy whirlwind it was ! What 

55 


OUR VILLAGE 


choking! what suffocation! No state could be more pitiable, ex¬ 
cept indeed that of the travellers who carried this misery about with 
them. I shall never forget the plight in which we met the coach one 
evening in last August, full an hour after its time, steeds and driver, 
carriage and passengers, all one dust. The outsides, and the horses, 
and the coachman, seemed reduced to a torpid quietness, the resig¬ 
nation of despair. They had left off trying to better their condition, 
and taken refuge in a wise and patient hopelessness, bent to endure 
in silence the extremity of ill. The six insides, on the contrary, 
were still fighting against their fate, vainly struggling to ameliorate 
their hapless destiny. They were visibly grumbling at the weather, 
scolding at the dust, and heating themselves like a furnace, by striv¬ 
ing against the heat. How well I remember the fat gentleman with¬ 
out his coat, who was wiping his forehead, heaving up his wig, and 
certainly uttering that English ejaculation, which, to our national 
reproach, is the phrase of our language best known on the continent. 
And that poor boy, red-hot, all in a flame, whose mamma, having 
divested her own person of all superfluous apparel, was trying to 
relieve his sufferings by the removal of his neckerchief — an opera¬ 
tion which he resisted with all his might. How perfectly I remember 
him, as well as the pale girl who sat opposite, fanning herself with her 
bonnet into an absolute fever! They vanished after a while into 
their own dust; but I have them all before my eyes at this moment, 
a companion picture to Hogarth’s “ Afternoon,” a standing lesson to 
the grumblers at cold summers. 

For my part, I really like this wet season. It keeps us within, to 
be sure, rather more than is quite agreeable; but then we are at 
least awake and alive there, and the world out of doors is so much 
the pleasanter when we can get abroad. Everything does well, 
except those fastidious bipeds, men and women; corn ripens, grass 
grows, fruit is plentiful; there is no lack of birds to eat it, and there 
has not been such a wasp-season these dozen years. My garden 
wants no watering, and is more beautiful than ever, beating my old 
rival in that primitive art, the pretty wife of the little mason, out and 
out. Measured with mine, her flowers are naught. Look at those 
hollyhocks, like pyramids of roses; those garlands of the convolvu¬ 
lus major of all colours, hanging around that tall pole, like the 
wreathy hop-bine; those magnificent dusky cloves, breathing of the 
Spice Islands; those flaunting double dahlias; those splendid scar¬ 
let geraniums, and those fierce and warlike flowers the tiger-lilies. 

56 


OUR VILLAGE 


Oh, how beautiful they are! Besides, the weather clears some¬ 
times — it has cleared this evening; and here are we, after a merry 
walk up the hill, almost as quick as in the winter, bounding lightly 
along the bright green turf of the pleasant common, enticed by the 
gay shouts of a dozen clear young voices, to linger awhile, and see 
the boys play at cricket. 

I plead guilty to a strong partiality towards that unpopular class 
of beings, country boys. 1 have a large acquaintance amongst them, 
and I can almost say, that I know good of many and harm of none. 
In general they are an open, spirited, good-humoured race, with a 
proneness to embrace the pleasures and eschew the evils of their 
condition, a capacity for happiness, quite unmatched in man, or 
woman, or a girl. They are patient, too, and bear their fate as 
scape-goats (for all sins whatsoever are laid as matters of course to 
their door), whether at home or abroad, with amazing resignation; 
and, considering the many lies of which they are the objects, they 
tell wonderfully few in return. The worst that can be said of them 
is, that they seldom, when grown to man’s estate, keep the promise 
of their boyhood; but that is a fault to come — a fault that may not 
come, and ought not to be anticipated. It is astonishing how sen¬ 
sible they are to notice from their betters, or those whom they think 
such. I do not speak of money, or gifts, or praise, or the more 
coarse and common briberies — they are more delicate courtiers; a 
word, a nod, a smile, or the mere calling of them by their names, is 
enough to ensure their hearts and their services. Half a dozen of 
them, poor urchins, have run away now to bring us chairs from their 
several homes. “ Thank you, Joe Kirby ! — you are always first — 
yes, that is just the place — I shall see everything there. Have you 
been in yet, Joe?” — “No, ma’am! I go in next.” — “Ah, I am 
glad of that — and now’s the time. Really that was a pretty ball 
of Jem Eusden’s! — I was sure it would go to the wicket. Run, 
Joe! They are waiting for you.” There was small need to bid 
Joe Kirby make haste; 1 think he is, next to a race-horse, or a grey¬ 
hound, or a deer, the fastest creature that runs — the most com¬ 
pletely alert and active. Joe is mine especial friend, and leader of 
the “tender juveniles,” as Joel Brent is of the adults. In both in¬ 
stances this post of honour was gained by merit, even more remark¬ 
ably so in Joe’s case than in Joel’s; for Joe is a less boy than many 
of his companions (some of whom are fifteeners and sixteeners, quite 
as tall and nearly as old as Tom Coper), and a poorer than all, as 

57 


OUR VILLAGE 


may be conjectured from the lamentable state of that patched round 
frock, and the ragged condition of those unpatched shoes, which 
would encumber, if anything could, the light feet that wear them. 
But why should I lament the poverty that never troubles him? 
Joe is the merriest and happiest creature that ever lived twelve 
years in this wicked world. Care cannot come near him. He hath 
a perpetual smile on his round ruddy face, and a laugh in his hazel 
eye, that drives the witch away. He works at yonder farm on the 
top of the hill, where he is in such repute for intelligence and good- 
humour, that he has the honour of performing all the errands of the 
house, of helping the maid, the mistress, and the master, in addition 
to his own stated office of carter’s boy. There he works hard from 
five till seven, and then he comes.here to work still harder, under the 
name of play — batting, bowling, and fielding, as if for life, filling 
the place of four boys; being, at a pinch, a whole eleven. The late 
Mr Knyvett, the king’s organist, who used in his own person to sing 
twenty parts at once of the Hallelujah Chorus, so that you would 
have thought he had a nest of nightingales in his throat, was but a 
type of Joe Kirby. There is a sort of ubiquity about him; he thinks 
nothing of being in two places at once, and for pitching a ball, Wil¬ 
liam Grey himself is nothing to him. It goes straight to the mark 
like a bullet. He is king of the cricketers from eight to sixteen, both 
inclusive, and an excellent ruler he makes. Nevertheless, in the best- 
ordered states there will be grumblers, and we have an opposition 
here in the shape of Jem Eusden. 

Jem Eusden is a stunted lad of thirteen, or thereabout, lean, 
small, and short, yet strong and active. His face is of an extraordi¬ 
nary ugliness, colourless, withered, haggard, with a look of extreme 
age, much increased by hair so light that it might rather pass for 
white than flaxen. He is constantly arrayed in the blue cap and old- 
fashioned coat, the costume of an endowed school to which he be¬ 
longs; where he sits still all day, and rushes into the field at night, 
fresh, untired, and ripe for action, to scold and brawl, and storm, 
and bluster. He hates Joe Kirby, whose immovable good-humour, 
broad smiles, and knowing nods, must certainly be very provoking 
to so fierce and turbulent a spirit; and he has himself (being, except 
by rare accident, no great player) the preposterous ambition of wish¬ 
ing to be manager of the sports. In short, he is a demagogue in 
embryo, with every quality necessary to a splendid success in that 
vocation, — a strong voice, a fluent utterance, an incessant itera- 

58 


OUR VILLAGE 


tion, and a frontless impudence. He is a great “scholar” too, to use 
the country phrase; his “piece,” as our village schoolmaster terms 
a fine sheet of flourishing writing, something between a valentine 
and a sampler, enclosed within a border of little coloured prints —• 
his last, I remember, was encircled by an engraved history of Moses, 
beginning at the finding in the bulrushes, with Pharaoh’s daughter 
dressed in a rose-coloured gown and blue feathers — his piece is 
not only the admiration of the school, but of the parish, and is sent 
triumphantly round from house to house at Christmas, to extort 
halfpence and sixpences from all encouragers of learning — Montem 
in miniature. The Mosaic history was so successful, that the prod¬ 
uce enabled Jem to purchase a bat and ball, which, besides adding 
to his natural arrogance (for the little pedant actually began to 
mutter against being eclipsed by a dunce, and went so far as to chal¬ 
lenge Joe Kirby to a trial in Practice, or the Rule of Three), gave 
him, when compared with the general poverty, a most unnatural 
preponderance in the cricket state. He had the ways and means 
in his hands (for alas ! the hard winter had made sad havoc among 
the bats, and the best ball was a bad one) — he had the ways and 
means, could withhold the supplies, and his party was beginning to 
wax strong, when Joe received a present of two bats and a ball for 
the youngsters in general and himself in particular — and Jem’s 
adherents left him on the spot — they ratted, to a man, that very 
evening. Notwithstanding this desertion, their forsaken leader has 
in nothing relaxed from his pretensions, or his ill-humour. He still 
quarrels and brawls as if he had a faction to back him, and thinks 
nothing of contending with both sides, the ins and the outs, secure 
of out-talking the whole field. He has been squabbling these ten 
minutes, and is just marching off now with his own bat (he has never 
deigned to use one of Joe’s) in his hand. What an ill-conditioned 
hobgoblin it is ! And yet there is something bold and sturdy about 
him too. I should miss Jem Eusden. 

Ah, there is another deserter from the party! my friend the little 
hussar — I do not know his name, and call him after his cap and 
jacket. He is a very remarkable person, about the age of eight 
years, the youngest piece of gravity and dignity I ever encountered; 
short, and square, and upright, and slow, with a fine bronzed flat 
visage, resembling those convertible signs the Broad-Face and the 
Saracen’s-Head, which, happening to be next-door neighbours in 
the town of B., I never knew apart, resembling, indeed, any face that 

59 


OUR VILLAGE 


is open-eyed and immovable, the very sign of a boy! He stalks 
about with his hands in his breeches pockets, like a piece of ma¬ 
chinery; sits leisurely down when he ought to field, and never gets 
farther in batting than to stop the ball. His is the only voice never 
heard in the melee: I doubt, indeed, if he have one, which may be 
partly the reason of a circumstance that I record to his honour, his 
fidelity to Jem Eusden, to whom he has adhered through every 
change of fortune, with a tenacity proceeding perhaps from an in¬ 
stinctive consciousness that the loquacious leader talks enough for 
two. He is the only thing resembling a follower that our demagogue 
possesses, and is cherished by him accordingly. Jem quarrels for 
him, scolds for him, pushes for him; and but for Joe Kirby’s in¬ 
vincible good-humour, and a just discrimination of the innocent 
from the guilty, the activity of Jem’s friendship would get the poor 
hussar ten drubbings a day. 

But it is growing late. The sun has set a long time. Only see 
what a gorgeous colouring has spread itself over those parting masses 
of clouds in the west, — what a train of rosy light! We shall have 
a fine sunshiny day to-morrow, — a blessing not to be undervalued, 
in spite of my late vituperation of heat. Shall we go home now? 
And shall we take the longest but prettiest road, that by the green 
lanes? This way, to the left, round the corner of the common, past 
Mr Welles’s cottage, and our path lies straight before us. How 
snug and comfortable that cottage looks! Its little yard all alive 
with the cow, and the mare, and the colt almost as large as the mare, 
and the young foal, and the great yard-dog, all so fat! Fenced in 
with hay-rick, and wheat-rick, and bean-stack, and backed by the 
long garden, the spacious drying-ground, the fine orchard, and that 
large field quartered into four different crops. How comfortable 
this cottage looks, and how well the owners earn their comforts! 
They are the most prosperous pair in the parish — she a laundress 
with twenty times more work than she can do, unrivalled in flounces 
and shirt-frills, and such delicacies of the craft; he, partly a farmer, 
partly a farmer’s man, tilling his own ground, and then tilling other 
people’s; — affording a proof, even in this declining age, when the 
circumstances of so many worthy members of the community seem 
to have “an alacrity in sinking,” that it is possible to amend them 
by sheer industry. He, who was born in the workhouse, and bred 
up as a parish boy, has now, by mere manual labour, risen to the 
rank of a land-owner, pays rates and taxes, grumbles at the times, 

6o 



Dipping up water. 

























OUR VILLAGE 


and is called Master Welles, — the title next to Mister — that by 
which Shakspeare was called; — what would man have more? 
His wife, besides being the best laundress in the county, is a comely 
woman still. There she stands at the spring, dipping up water for 
to-morrow, — the clear, deep, silent spring, which sleeps so peace¬ 
fully under its high flowery bank, red with the tall spiral stalks of the 
foxglove and their rich pendent bells, blue with the beautiful forget- 
me-not, that gem-like blossom, which looks like a living jewel of 
turquoise and topaz. It is almost too late to see its beauty; and 
here is the pleasant shady lane, where the high elms will shut out 
the little twilight that remains. Ah, but we shall have the fairies’ 
lamps to guide us, the stars of the earth, the glow-worms! Here 
they are, three almost together. Do you not see them? One 
seems tremulous, vibrating, as if on the extremity of a leaf of grass; 
the others are deeper in the hedge, in some green cell on which their 
light falls with an emerald lustre. I hope my friends the cricketers 
will not come this way home. I would not have the pretty creatures 
removed for more than I care to say, and in this matter I would 
hardly trust Joe Kirby — boys so love to stick them in’their hats. 
But this lane is quite deserted. It is only a road from field to field. 
No one comes here at this hour. They are quite safe; and I shall 
walk here to-morrow and visit them again. And now, good-night! 
beautiful insects, lamps of the fairies, good-night! 


XI. 


THE SHAW 

QtEPTEMBER NINTH. — A bright sunshiny afternoon. 

What a comfort it is to get out again — to see once more that 
rarity of rarities, a fine day! We English people are accused of 
talking over-much of the weather; but the weather, this summer, 
has forced people to talk of it. Summer ! did I say ? Oh ! season 
most unworthy of that sweet, sunny name ! Season of coldness and 
cloudiness, of gloom and rain! A worse November! —for in 
November the days are short; and shut up in a warm room, lighted 
by that household sun, a lamp, one feels through the long evenings 
comfortably independent of the out-of-door tempests. But though 
we may have, .and did have, fires all through the dog-days, there is 

61 



OUR VILLAGE 


no shutting out daylight; and sixteen hours of rain, pattering 
against the windows and dripping from the eaves — sixteen hours 
of rain, not merely audible, but visible for seven days in the week — 
would be enough to exhaust the patience of Job or Grizzel; es¬ 
pecially if Job were a farmer, and Grizzel a country gentlewoman. 
Never was known such a season ! Hay swimming, cattle drowning, 
fruit rotting, corn spoiling ! and that naughty river, the Loddon, who 
never can take Puff’s advice, and “keep between its banks,” running 
about the country, fields, roads, gardens, and houses, like mad ! The 
weather would be talked of. Indeed, it was not easy to talk of any¬ 
thing else. A friend of mine having occasion to write me a letter, 
thought it worth abusing in rhyme, and bepommelled it through 
three pages of Bath-guide verse; of which I subjoin a specimen: — 

“Aquarius surely reigns over the world, 

And of late he his water-pot strangely has twirl’d ; 

Or he’s taken a cullender up by mistake, 

And unceasingly dips it in some mighty lake ; 

Though it is not in Lethe — for who can forget 
The annoyance of getting most thoroughly wet? 

It must be in the river called Styx, I declare, 

For the moment it drizzles it makes the men swear. 

‘ It did rain to-morrow,’ is growing good grammar; 

Vauxhall and camp-stools have been brought to the hammer; 

A pony-gondola is all I can keep, 

And I use my umbrella and pattens in steep : 

Row out of my window, whene’er ’tis my whim 
To visit a friend, and just ask, ‘ Can you swim? ’ ” 

So far my friend.* In short, whether in prose or in verse, everybody 

* This friend of mine is a person of great quickness and talent, who, if 
she were not a beauty and a woman of fortune — that is to say, if she were 
prompted by either of those two powerful stimuli , want of money or want 
of admiration, to take due pains — would inevitably become a clever writer. 
As it is, her notes and jeux d’esprit struck off a trait de plume , have great 
point and neatness. Take the following billet, which formed the label to 
a closed basket, containing the ponderous present alluded to, last Michael¬ 
mas day : — 

“ To Miss M. 

* When this you see 
Remember me,’ 

Was long a phrase in use ; 

And so I send 
To you, dear friend, 

My proxy, ‘ What ? ’ — A goose ! ” 

62 


OUR VILLAGE 


railed at the weather. But this is over now. The sun has come to 
dry the world; mud is turned into dust; rivers have retreated to 
their proper limits; farmers have left off grumbling; and we are 
about to take a walk, as usual, as far as the Shaw, a pretty wood 
about a mile off. But one of our companions being a stranger to the 
gentle reader, we must do him the honour of an introduction. 

Dogs, when they are sure of having their own way, have some¬ 
times ways as odd as those of the unfurred, unfeathered animals, 
who walk on two legs, and talk, and are called rational. My beauti¬ 
ful white greyhound, Mayflower,* for instance, is as whimsical as the 
finest lady in the land. Amongst her other fancies, she has taken a 
violent affection for a most hideous stray dog, who made his appear¬ 
ance here about six months ago, and contrived to pick up a living in 
the village, one can hardly tell how. Now appealing to the charity 
of old Rachael Strong, the laundress — a dog-lover by profession; 
now winning a meal from the light-footed and open-hearted lasses at 
the Rose; now standing on his hind-legs, to extort by sheer beggary 
a scanty morsel from some pair of “drouthy cronies,” or solitary 
drover, discussing his dinner or supper on the alehouse-bench; now 
catching a mouthful, flung to him in pure contempt by some scorn¬ 
ful gentleman of the shoulder-knot, mounted on his throne, the 
coach-box, whose notice he had attracted by dint of ugliness; now 
sharing the commons of Master Keep the shoemaker’s pigs; now 
succeeding to the reversion of the well-gnawed bone of Master 
Brown the shopkeeper’s fierce house-dog; now filching the skim- 
milk of Dame Wheeler’s cat: — spit at by the cat; worried by the 
mastiff; chased by the pigs; screamed at by the dame; stormed at 
by the shoemaker; flogged by the shopkeeper; teased by all the 
children, and scouted by all the animals of the parish; — but yet 
living through his griefs, and bearing them patiently, “for suffer¬ 
ance is the badge of all his tribe; ” — and even seeming to find, in an 
occasional full meal, or a gleam of sunshine, or a wisp of dry straw 
on which to repose his sorry carcase, some comfort in his disconso¬ 
late condition. 

In this plight was he found by May, the most high-blooded and 
aristocratic of greyhounds; and from this plight did May rescue 
him; — invited him into her territory, the stable; resisted all at¬ 
tempts to turn him out; reinstated him there, in spite of maid and 
boy, and mistress and master; wore out everybody’s opposition, by 

* Dead, alas, since this was written. 

63 


OUR VILLAGE 


the activity of her protection, and the pertinacity of her self-will; 
made him sharer of her bed and of her mess; and, finally, estab¬ 
lished him as one of the family as firmly as herself. 

Dash — for he has even won himself a name amongst us, before 
he was anonymous — Dash is a sort of a kind of a spaniel; at least 
there is in his mongrel composition some sign of that beautiful race. 
Besides his ugliness, which is of the worst sort — that is to say, the 
shabbiest — he has a' limp on one leg that gives a peculiar one-sided 
awkwardness to his gait; but independently of his great merit in 
being May’s pet, he has other merits which serve to account for that 
phenomenon — being, beyond all comparison, the most faithful, at¬ 
tached, and affectionate animal that I have ever known; and that is 
saying much. He seems to think it necessary to atone for his ugliness 
by extra good conduct, and does so dance on his lame leg, and so 
wag his scrubby tail, that it does any one who has a taste for happi¬ 
ness good to look at him — so that he may now be said to stand on 
his own footing. We are all rather ashamed of him when strangers 
come in the way, and think it necessary to explain that he is May’s 
pet; but amongst ourselves, and those who are used to his appear¬ 
ance, he has reached the point of favouritism in his own person. I 
have, in common with wiser women, the feminine weakness of 
loving whatever loves me — and, therefore, I like Dash. His mas¬ 
ter has found out that he is a capital finder, and in spite of his lame¬ 
ness will hunt a field or beat a cover with any spaniel in England 
— and, therefore, he likes Dash. The boy has fought a battle, in 
defence of his beauty, with another boy, bigger than himself, and 
beat his opponent most handsomely — and, therefore, he likes 
Dash; and the maids like him, or pretend to like him, because we 
do — as is the fashion of that pliant and imitative class. And now 
Dash and May follow us everywhere, and are going with us to the 
Shaw, as I said before — or rather to the cottage by the Shaw, to 
bespeak milk and butter of our little dairy-woman, Hannah Bint — 
a housewifely occupation, to which we owe some of our pleasantest 
rambles. 

And now we pass the sunny, dusty village street — who would 
have thought, a month ago, that we should complain of sun and dust 
again! — and turn the corner where the two great oaks hang so 
beautifully over the clear deep pond, mixing their cool green shadows 
with the bright blue sky, and the white clouds that flit over it; and 
loiter at the wheeler’s shop, always picturesque, with its tools, and 

64 





By sheer beggary 


































































































OUR VILLAGE 


its work, and its materials, all so various in form, and so harmonious 
in colour; and its noise, merry workmen, hammering and singing, 
and making a various harmony also. The shop is rather empty 
to-day, for its usual inmates are busy on the green beyond the pond 
— one set building a cart, another painting a waggon. And then 
we leave the village quite behind, and proceed slowly up the cool, 
quiet lane, between tall hedgerows of the darkest verdure, over¬ 
shadowing banks green and fresh as an emerald. 

Not so quick as I expected, though — for they are shooting here 
to-day, as Dash and I have both discovered: he with great delight, 
for a gun to him is as a trumpet to a war-horse; I with no less annoy¬ 
ance, for I don’t think that a partridge itself, barring the accident of 
being killed, can be more startled than I at that abominable explo¬ 
sion. Dash has certainly better blood in his veins than any one 
would guess to look at him. He even shows some inclination to 
elope into the fields, in pursuit of those noisy iniquities. But he is 
an orderly person after all, and a word has checked him. 

Ah! here is a shriller din mingling with the small artillery — a 
shriller and more continuous. We are not yet arrived within sight 
of Master Weston’s cottage, snugly hidden behind a clump of elms; 
but we are in full hearing of Dame Weston’s tongue, raised as usual 
to scolding pitch. The Westons are new arrivals in our neighbour¬ 
hood, and i;he first thing heard of them was a complaint from the 
wife to our magistrate of her husband’s beating her: it was a regular 
charge of assault — an information in full form. A most piteous 
case did Dame Weston make of it, softening her voice for the nonce 
into a shrill tremulous whine, and exciting the mingled pity and 
anger — pity towards herself, anger towards her husband — of the 
whole female world, pitiful and indignant as the female world is wont 
to be on such occasions. Every woman in the parish railed at Mas¬ 
ter Weston; and poor Master Weston was summoned to attend the 
bench on the ensuing Saturday, and answer the charge; and such 
was the clamour abroad and at home, that the unlucky culprit, ter¬ 
rified at the sound of a warrant and a constable, ran away, and was 
not heard .of for a fortnight. 

At the end of that time he was discovered, and brought to the 
bench; and Dame Weston again told her story, and, as before, on 
the full cry. She had no witnesses, and the bruises of which she 
made complaint had disappeared, and there were no women present 
to make common cause with the sex. Still, however, the general 

65 


OUR VILLAGE 


feeling was against Master Weston; and it would have gone hard 
with him when he was called in, if a most unexpected witness had 
not risen up in his favour. His wife had brought in her arms a little 
girl about eighteen months old, partly perhaps to move compassion 
in her favour; for a woman with a child in her arms is always an 
object that excites kind feelings. The little girl had looked shy and 
frightened, and had been as quiet as a lamb during her mother’s 
examination; but she no sooner saw her father, from whom she had 
been a fortnight separated, than she clapped her hands, and laughed, 
and cried, “ Daddy! daddy!” and sprang into his arms, and hung 
round his neck, and covered him with kisses — again shouting, 
“ Daddy, come home ! daddy! daddy!” — and finally nestled her 
little head in his bosom, with a fulness of contentment, an assurance 
of tenderness and protection such as no w T ife-beating tyrant ever did 
inspire, or ever could inspire, since the days of King Solomon. Our 
magistrates acted in the very spirit of the Jewish monarch: they ac¬ 
cepted the evidence of nature, and dismissed the complaint. And 
subsequent events have fully justified their decision; Mistress Wes¬ 
ton proving not only renowned for the feminine accomplishment of 
scolding (tongue-banging, it is called in our parts, a compound word 
which deserves to be Greek), but is actually herself addicted to 
administering the conjugal discipline, the infliction of which she was 
pleased to impute to her luckless husband. 

Now we cross the stile, and walk up the fields to the Shaw. How 
beautifully green this pasture looks! and how finely the evening sun 
glances between the boles of that clump of trees, beech, and ash, 
and aspen! and how sweet the hedgerows are with woodbine and 
wild scabious, or, as the country people call it, the gipsy-rose! 
Here is little Dolly Weston, the unconscious witness, with cheeks 
as red as a real rose, tottering up the path to meet her father. And 
here is the carroty-poled urchin, George Coper, returning from work, 
and singing “Home! sweet Home!” at the top of his voice; and 
then, when the notes prove too high for him, continuing the air in a 
whistle, until he has turned the impassable corner; then taking up 
again the song and the words, “Home! sweet Home !” and looking 
as if he felt their full import, ploughboy though he be. And so he 
does; for he is one of a large, an honest, a kind, and an industrious 
family, where all goes well, and where the poor ploughboy is sure 
of finding cheerful faces and coarse comforts — all that he has 
learned to desire. Oh, to be as cheaply and as thoroughly con- 

66 


OUR VILLAGE 


tented as George Coper! All his luxuries a cricket-match!—all 
his wants satisfied in “home ! sweet home!” 

Nothing but noises to-day! They are clearing Farmer Brooke’s 
great bean-field, and crying the “Harvest Home!” in a chorus, 
before which all other sounds — the song, the scolding, the gunnery 
— fade away, and become faint echoes. A pleasant noise is that! 
though, for one’s ears’ sake, one makes some haste to get away from 
it. And here, in happy time, is that pretty wood, the Shaw, with its 
broad pathway, its tangled dingles, its nuts and its honeysuckles; — 
and, carrying away a faggot of those sweetest flowers, we reach 
Hannah Bint’s: of whom, and of whose doings, we shall say more 
another time. 

Note. — Poor Dash is also dead. We did not keep him long, 
indeed I believe that he died of the transition from starvation to 
good feed, as dangerous to a dog’s stomach, and to most stomachs, 
as the less agreeable change from good feed to starvation. He has 
been succeeded in place and favour by another Dash, not less 
amiable in demeanour and far more creditable in appearance, 
bearing no small resemblance to the pet spaniel of my friend Master 
Dinely, he who stole the bone from the magpies, and who figures as 
the first Dash of this volume. Let not the unwary reader opine, 
that in assigning the same name to three several individuals, I am 
acting as an humble imitator of the inimitable writer who bas given 
immortality to the Peppers and the Mustards, on the one hand; or 
showing a poverty of invention or a want of acquaintance with the 
bead-roll of canine appellations on the other. I merely, with my 
usual scrupulous fidelity, take the names as I find them. The fact 
is that half the handsome spaniels in England are called Dash, just 
as half the tall footmen are called Thomas. The name belongs to 
the species. Sitting in an open carriage one day last summer at the 
door of a farmhouse where my father had some business, I saw a 
noble and beautiful animal of this kind lying in great state and lazi¬ 
ness on the steps, and felt an immediate desire to make acquaintance 
with him. My father, who had had the same fancy, had patted him 
and called him “poor fellow” in passing, without eliciting the small¬ 
est notice in return. “Dash!” cried I at a venture, “good Dash! 
noble Dash!” and up he started in a moment, making but one 
spring from the door into the gig. Of course I was right in my 
guess. The gentleman’s name was Dash. 


OUR VILLAGE 


XII. 

NUTTING 

SEPTEMBER TWENTY-SIXTH. — One of those delicious 
kJ autumnal days, when the air, the sky, and the earth seem 
lulled into a universal calm, softer and milder even than May. We 
sallied forth for a walk, in a mood congenial to the weather and the 
season, avoiding, by mutual consent, the bright and sunny common, 
and the gay high-road, and stealing through shady, unfrequented 
lanes, where we were not likely to meet any one, — not even the 
pretty family procession which in other years we used to contemplate 
with so much interest — the father, mother, and children, returning 
from the wheat-field, the little ones laden with bristling close-tied 
bunches of wheat-ears, their own gleanings, or a bottle and a basket 
which had contained their frugal dinner, whilst the mother would 
carry her babe hushing and lulling it, and the father and an elder 
child trudged after with the cradle, all seeming weary and all happy. 
We shall not see such a procession as this to-day; for the harvest is 
nearly over, the fields are deserted, the silence may almost be felt. 
Except the wintry notes of the redbreast, nature herself is mute. 
But how beautiful, how gentle, how harmonious, how rich! The 
rain has .preserved to the herbage all the freshness and verdure of 
spring, and the world of leaves has lost nothing of its midsummer 
brightness, and the harebell is on the banks, and the woodbine in 
the hedges, and the low furze, which the lambs cropped in the 
spring, has burst again into its golden blossoms. 

All is beautiful that the eye can see; perhaps the more beautiful 
for being shut in with a forest-like closeness. We have no prospect 
in this labyrinth of lanes, cross-roads, mere cart-ways, leading to the 
innumerable little farms into which this part of the parish is divided. 
Up hill or down, these quiet woody lanes scarcely give us a peep at 
the world, except when, leaning over a gate, we look into one of the 
small enclosures, hemmed in with hedgerows, so closely set with 
growing timber, that the meady opening looks almost like a glade 
in a wood; or when some cottage, planted at a corner of one of the 
little greens formed by the meeting of these cross-ways, almost 
startles us by the unexpected sight of the dwellings of men in such a 
solitude. But that we have more of hill and dale, and that our cross- 

68 


OUR VILLAGE 


roads are excellent in their kind, -this side of our parish would re¬ 
semble the description given of La Vendee, in Madame Laroche- 
Jacquelin’s most interesting book.* I am sure if wood can entitle a 
country to be called Le Bocage, none can have a better right to the 
name. Even this pretty snug farmhouse on the hillside, with its 
front covered with the rich vine, which goes wreathing up to the very 
top of the clustered chimney, and its sloping orchard full of fruit — 
even this pretty quiet nest can hardly peep out of its leaves. Ah! * 
they are gathering in the orchard harvest. Look at that young 
rogue in the old mossy apple-tree — that great tree, bending with 
the weight of its golden-rennets — see how he pelts his little sister 
beneath with apples as red and as round as her own cheeks, while 
she, with her outstretched frock, is trying to catch them, and laugh¬ 
ing and offering to pelt again as often as one bobs aginst her; and 
look at that still younger imp, who, as grave as a judge, is creeping 
on hands and knees under the tree, picking up the apples as they 
fall so deedily,*)* and depositing them so honestly in the great basket 
on the grass, already fixed so firmly and opened so widely, and filled 
almost to overflowing by the brown rough fruitage of the golden- 
rennet’s next neighbour the russeting; and see that smallest urchin 
of all, seated apart in infantine state on the turfy bank, with that 
toothsome piece of deformity a crumpling in each hand, now biting 
from one sweet, hard, juicy morsel and now from another. Is not 
that a pretty English picture? And then, farther up the orchard, 
that bold hardy lad, the eldest born, who has scaled (Heaven knows 
how) the tall, straight upper branch of that great pear-tree, and is 
sitting there as securely and as fearlessly, in as much real safety and 
apparent danger, as a sailor on the top-mast. Now he shakes the 
tree with a mighty swing that brings down a pelting shower of stony 
bergamots, which the father gathers rapidly up, whilst the mother 
can hardly assist for her motherly fear — a fear which only spurs 

* An almost equally interesting account of that very peculiar and interest¬ 
ing scenery, may be found in The Maid oj La Vendee , an English novel, 
remarkable for its simplicity and truth of painting, written by Mrs. Le Noir, 
the daughter of Christopher Smart, an inheritrix of much of his talent. Her 
works deserve to be better known. 

t “ Deedily,” — I am not quite sure that this word is good English ; but 
it is genuine Hampshire, and is used by the most correct of female writers, 
Miss Austen. It means (and it is no small merit that it has no exact 
synonym) anything done with a profound and plodding attention, an action 
which engrosses all the powers of mind and body. 

69 


OUR VILLAGE 


the spirited boy to bolder ventures. Is not that a pretty picture ? 
And they are such a handsome family too, the Brookers. I do not 
know that there is any gipsy blood, but there is the true gipsy com¬ 
plexion, richly brown, with cheeks and lips so red, black hair curling 
close to their heads in short crisp rings, white shining teeth — and 
such eyes! — That sort of beauty entirely eclipses your mere roses 
and lilies. Even Lizzy, the prettiest of fair children, would look 
'poor and watery by the side of Willy Brooker, the sober little per¬ 
sonage who is picking up the apples with his small chubby hands, 
and filling the basket so orderly, next to his father the most useful 
man in the field. “Willy!” He hears without seeing; for we are 
quite hidden by the high bank, and a spreading hawthorn bush that 
overtops it, though between the lower branches and the grass we 
have found a convenient peep-hole. “Willy!” The voice sounds 
to him like some fairy dream, and the black eyes are raised from the 
ground with sudden wonder, the long silky eyelashes thrown back 
till they rest on the delicate brow, and a deeper blush is burning on 
those dark cheeks, and a smile is dimpling about those scarlet 
lips. But the voice is silent now, and the little quiet boy, after a 
moment’s pause, is gone coolly to work again. He is indeed a 
most lovely child. I think some day or other he must marry 
Lizzy; I shall propose the match to their respective mammas. 
At present the parties are rather too young for a wedding — the in¬ 
tended bridegroom being, as I should judge, six, or thereabout, and 
the fair bride barely five, — but at least we might have a betroth- 
ment after the royal fashion, — there could be no harm in that. 
Miss Lizzy, I have no doubt, would be as demure and coquettish 
as if ten winters more had gone over her head, and poor Willy 
would open his innocent black eyes, and wonder what was going 
forward. They would be the very Oberon and Titania of the vil¬ 
lage, the fairy king and queen. 

Ah! here is the hedge along which the periwinkle wreathes and 
twines so profusely, with its evergreen leaves shining like the myrtle, 
and its starry blue flowers. It is seldom found wild in this part of 
England; but, when we do meet with it, it is so abundant and so 
welcome, — the very robin-redbreast of flowers, a winter friend. 
Unless in those unfrequent frosts which destroy all vegetation, it 
blossoms from September to June, surviving the last lingering 
crane’s-bill, forerunning the earliest primrose, hardier even than the 
mountain daisy, — peeping out from beneath the snow, looking at 

70 


OUR VILLAGE 


itself in the ice, smiling through the tempests of life, and yet 
welcoming and enjoying the sunbeams. Oh, to be like that 
flower! 

The little spring that has been bubbling under the hedge all along 
the hillside, begins, now that we have mounted the eminence and 
are imperceptibly descending, to deviate into a capricious variety of 
clear deep pools and channels, so narrow and so choked with weeds, 
that a child might overstep them. The hedge has also changed its 
character. It is no longer the close compact vegetable wall of haw¬ 
thorn, and maple, and brier-roses, intertwined with bramble and 
woodbine, and crowned with large elms or thickly-set saplings. No ! 
the pretty meadow which rises high above us, backed and almost 
surrounded by a tall coppice, needs no defence on our side but its 
own steep bank, garnished with tufts of broom, with pollard oaks 
wreathed with ivy, and here and there with long patches of hazel 
overhanging the water. “Ah, there are still nuts on that bough !” 
and in an instant my dear companion, active and eager and delighted 
as a boy, has hooked down with his walking-stick one of the lissome 
hazel stalks, and cleared it of its tawny clusters, and in another 
moment he has mounted the bank, and is in the midst of the nuttery, 
now transferring the spoil from the lower branches into that vast 
variety of pockets which gentlemen carry about them, now bending 
the tall tops into the lane, holding them down by main force, so that 
I might reach them and enjoy the pleasure of collecting some of the 
plunder myself. A very great pleasure he knew it would be. I 
doffed my shawl, tucked up my flounces, turned my straw bonnet 
into a basket, and began gathering and scrambling — for, manage 
it how you may, nutting is scrambling work, — those boughs, how¬ 
ever tightly you may grasp them by the young fragrant twigs and 
the bright green leaves, will recoil and burst away; but there is a 
pleasure even in that: so on we go, scrambling and gathering with 
all our might and all our glee. Oh, what an enjoyment! All my 
life long I have had a passion for that sort of seeking which implies 
finding (the secret, I believe, of the love of field-sports, which is in 
man’s mind a natural impulse) — therefore I love violeting, — 
therefore, when we had a fine garden, I used to love to gather straw¬ 
berries, and cut asparagus, and above all, to collect the filberts from 
the shrubberies: but this hedgerow nutting beats that sport all to 
nothing. That was a make-believe thing, compared with this; 
there was no surprise, no suspense, no unexpectedness — it was as 

7 1 


OUR VILLAGE 


inferior to this wild nutting, as the turning out of a bag-fox is to 
unearthing the fellow, in the eyes of a staunch fox-hunter. 

Oh, what enjoyment this nut-gathering is! They are in such 
abundance, that it seems as if there were not a boy in the parish, 
nor a young man, nor a young woman, — for a basket of nuts is the 
universal tribute of country gallantry; our pretty damsel Harriet 
has had at least half a dozen this season; but no one has found out 
these. And they are so full too, we lose half of them from over¬ 
ripeness ; they drop from the socket at the slightest motion. If we 
lose, there is one who finds. May is as fond of nuts as a squirrel, 
and cracks the shell and extracts the kernel with equal dexterity. 
Her white glossy head is upturned now to watch them as they fall. 
See how her neck is thrown back like that of a swan, and how beauti¬ 
fully her folded ears quiver with expectation, and how her quick 
eye follows the rustling noise, and her light feet dance and pat the 
ground, and leap up with eagerness, seeming almost sustained in 
the air, just as I have seen her when Brush is beating a hedgerow, 
and she knows from his questing that there is a hare afoot. See, she 
has caught that nut just before it touched the water; but the water 
would have been no defence, — she fishes them from the bottom, 
she delves after them amongst the matted grass — even my bonnet 
— how beggingly she looks at that! “ Oh, what a pleasure nutting 

is ! — Is it not, May ? But the pockets are almost full, and so is the 
basket-bonnet, and that bright watch the sun says it is late; and 
after all it is wrong to rob the poor boys — is it not, May ?” — May 
shakes her graceful head denyingly, as if she understood the ques¬ 
tion — “And we must go home now — must we not? But we will 
come nutting again some time or other — shall we not, my May ? ” 


XIII. 

THE VISIT 

O CTOBER TWENTY-SEVENTH. — A lovely autumnal 
day; the air soft, balmy, genial; the sky of that softened and 
delicate blue upon which the eye loves to rest, — the blue which 
gives such relief to the rich beauty of the earth, all around glowing 
in the ripe and mellow tints of the most gorgeous of the seasons. 

72 



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Really such an autumn may well compensate our English climate 
for the fine spring of the south, that spring of which the poets talk, 
but which we so seldom enjoy. Such an autumn glows upon us like 
a splendid evening; it is the very sunset of the year; and I have 
been tempted forth into a wider range of enjoyment than usual. 
This walk (if I may use the Irish figure of speech called a bull) will 
be a ride. A very dear friend has beguiled me into accompanying 
her in her pretty equipage to her beautiful home, four miles off; and 
having sent forward in the style of a running footman the servant 
who had driven her, she assumes the reins, and off we set. 

My fair companion is a person whom nature and fortune would 
have spoiled if they could. She is one of those striking women whom 
a stranger cannot pass without turning to look again; tall and finely 
proportioned, with a bold Roman contour of figure and feature, a 
delicate English complexion, and an air of distinction altogether her 
own. Her beauty is duchess-like. She seems born to wear feathers 
and diamonds, and to form the grace and ornament of a court; and 
the noble frankness and simplicity of her countenance and manner 
confirm the impression. Destiny has, however, dealt more kindly 
by her. She is the wife of a rich country gentleman of high descent 
and higher attainments, to whom she is most devotedly attached, — 
the mother of a little girl as lovely as herself, and the delight of all 
who have the happiness of her acquaintance, to whom she is en¬ 
deared not merely by her remarkable sweetness of temper and kind¬ 
ness of heart, but by the singular ingenuousness and openness of 
character which communicate an indescribable charm to her con¬ 
versation. She is as transparent as water. You may see every 
colour, every shade of a mind as lofty and beautiful as her person. 
Talking with her is like being in the Palace of Truth described by 
Madame de Genlis; and yet so kindly are her feelings, so great her 
indulgence to the little failings and foibles of our common nature, 
so intense her sympathy with the wants, the wishes, the sorrows, and 
the happiness of her fellow-creatures, that, with all her frank¬ 
speaking, I never knew her make an enemy or lose a friend. 

But we must get on. What would she say if she knew I was put¬ 
ting her into print ? We must get on up the hill. Ah ! that is pre¬ 
cisely what we are not likely to do! This horse, this beautiful and 
high-bred horse, well-fed, and fat and glossy, who stood prancing at 
our gate like an Arabian, has suddenly turned sulky. He does not 
indeed stand quite still, but his way of moving is little better — the 

73 


OUR VILLAGE 


slowest and most sullen of all walks. Even they who ply the hearse 
at funerals, sad-looking beasts who totter under black feathers, go 
faster. It is of no use to admonish him by whip, or rein, or word. 
The rogue has found out that it is a weak and tender hand that guides 
him now. Oh, for one pull, one stroke of his old driver, the groom ! 
how he would fly! But there is the groom half a mile before us, out 
of earshot, clearing the ground at a capital rate, beating us hollow. 
He has just turned the top of the hill; —and in a moment — ay, 
now he is out of sight, and will undoubtedly so continue till he meets 
us at the lawn gate. Well! there is no great harm. It is only pro¬ 
longing the pleasure of enjoying together this charming scenery in 
this fine weather. If once we make up our minds not to care how 
slowly our steed goes, not to fret ourselves by vain exertions, it is no 
matter what his pace may be. There is little doubt of his getting 
home by sunset, and that will content us. He is, after all, a fine 
noble animal; and perhaps when he finds that we are determined 
to give him his way, he may relent and give us ours. All his sex are 
sticklers for dominion, though, when it is undisputed, some of them 
are generous enough to abandon it. Two or three of the most dis¬ 
creet wives of my acquaintance contrive to manage their husbands 
sufficiently with no better secret than this seeming submission; and 
in our case the example has the more weight since we have no pos¬ 
sible way of helping ourselves. 

Thus philosophising, we reached the top of the hill, and viewed 
with “ reverted eyes ” the beautiful prospect that lay bathed in golden 
sunshine behind us. Cowper says, with that boldness of expressing 
in poetry the commonest and simplest feelings, which is perhaps one 
great secret of his originality, 

“ Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily seen, 

Please daily, and whose novelty survives 
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.” 

Every day I walk up this hill — every day I pause at the top to ad¬ 
mire the broad winding road with the green waste on each side, 
uniting it with the thickly timbered hedgerows; the two pretty 
cottages at unequal distances, placed so as to mark the bends; the 
village beyond, with its mass of roofs and clustered chimneys peep¬ 
ing through the trees; and the rich distance, where cottages, man¬ 
sions, churches, towns, seem embowered in some wide forest, and 
shut in by blue shadowy hills. Every day I admire this most 

74 


OUR VILLAGE 


beautiful landscape; yet never did it seem to me so fine or so glowing 
as now. All the tints of the glorious autumn, orange, tawny, yellow, 
red, are poured in profusion among the bright greens of the meadows 
and turnip fields, till the eyes are satiated with colour; and then 
before us we have the common with its picturesque roughness of 
surface tufted with cottages, dappled with water, edging off on one 
side into fields and farms and orchards, and terminated on the other 
by the princely oak avenue. What a richness and variety the wild 
broken ground gives to the luxuriant cultivation of the rest of the 
landscape! Cowper has described it for me. How perpetually, 
as we walk in the country, his vivid pictures recur to the memory! 
Here is his common and mine! 

“ The common overgrown with fern, and rough 
With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform’d 
And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, 

And decks itself with ornaments of gold ; — 

-there the turf 

Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs 
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense 
With luxury of unexpected sweets.” 

The description is exact. There, too, to the left is my cricket- 
ground (Cowper’s common wanted that finishing grace); and there 
stands one solitary urchin, as if in contemplation of its past and fu¬ 
ture glories; for, alas ! cricket is over for the season. Ah ! it is Ben 
Kirby, next brother to Joe, king of the youngsters, and probably his 
successor — for this Michaelmas has cost us Joe ! He is promoted 
from the farm to the mansion-house, two miles off; there he cleans 
shoes, rubs knives, and runs on errands, and is, as his mother ex¬ 
presses it, “a sort of ’prentice to the footman.” I should not won¬ 
der if Joe, some day or other, should overtop the footman, and rise 
to be butler; and his splendid prospects must be our consolation for 
the loss of this great favourite. In the meantime we have Ben. 

Ben Kirby is a year younger than Joe, and the school-fellow and 
rival of Jem Eusden. To be sure his abilities lie in rather a different 
line: Jem is a scholar, Ben is a wag: Jem is great in figures and 
writing, Ben in faces and mischief. His master says of him, that, 
if there were two such in the school, he must resign his office; and 
as far as my observation goes, the worthy pedagogue is right. Ben 
is, it must be confessed, a great corrupter of gravity. He hath an 

75 



OUR VILLAGE 


exceeding aversion to authority and decorum, and a wonderful bold¬ 
ness and dexterity in overthrowing the one and puzzling the other. 
His contortions of visage are astounding. His “ power over his 
own muscles and those of other people” is almost equal to that of 
Liston; and indeed the original face, flat and square and Chinese 
in its shape, of a fine tan complexion, with a snub nose, and a slit for 
a mouth, is nearly as comical as that matchless performer’s. When 
aided by Ben’s singular mobility of feature, his knowing winks and 
grins and shrugs and nods, together with a certain dry shrewdness, 
a habit of saying sharp things, and a marvellous gift of impudence, 
it forms as fine a specimen as possible of a humorous country boy, 
an oddity in embryo. Everybody likes Ben, except his butts (which 
may perhaps comprise half his acquaintance); and of them no one 
so thoroughly hates and dreads him as our parish school-master, a 
most worthy King Log, whom Ben dumbfounds twenty times a day. 
He is a great ornament of the cricket-ground, has a real genius for 
the game, and displays it after a very original manner, under the dis¬ 
guise of awkwardness — as the clown shows off his agility in a pan¬ 
tomime. Nothing comes amiss to him. By the bye, he would have 
been the very lad for us in our present dilemma; not a horse in 
England could master Ben Kirby. But we are too far from him 
now — and perhaps it is as well that we are so. I believe the rogue 
has a kindness for me, in remembrance of certain apples and nuts, 
which my usual companion, who delights in his wit, is accustomed 
to dole out to him. But it is a Robin Goodfellow nevertheless, a 
perfect Puck, that loves nothing on earth so well as mischief. Per¬ 
haps the horse may be the safer conductor of the two. 

The avenue is quite alive to-day. Old women are picking up 
twigs and acorns, and pigs of all sizes doing their utmost to spare 
them the latter part of the trouble; boys and girls groping for beech¬ 
nuts under yonder clump; and a group of younger elves collecting 
as many dead leaves as they can find to feed the bonfire which is 
smoking away so briskly amongst the trees, — a sort of rehearsal of 
the grand bonfire nine days hence; of the loyal conflagration of the 
arch-traitor Guy Vaux, which is annually solemnised in the avenue, 
accompanied with as much of squibbery and crackery as our boys 
can beg or borrow — not to say steal. Ben Kirby is a great man 
on the 5th of November. All the savings of a month, the hoarded 
halfpence, the new farthings, the very luck-penny, go off in junto on 
that night. For my part, I like this daylight mockery better. There 

76 


OUR VILLAGE 


is no gunpowder — odious gunpowder! no noise but the merry 
shouts of the small fry, so shrill and happy, and the cawing of the 
rooks, who are wheeling in large circles overhead, and wondering 
what is going forward in their territory — seeming in their loud 
clamour to ask what that light smoke may mean that curls so prettily 
amongst their old oaks, towering as if to meet the clouds. There is 
something very intelligent in the ways of that black people the rooks, 
particularly in their wonder. I suppose it results from their num¬ 
bers and their unity of purpose, a sort of collective and corporate 
wisdom. Yet geese congregate also; and geese never by any chance 
look wise. But then geese are a domestic fowl; we have spoiled 
them; and rooks are free commoners of nature, who use the habita¬ 
tions we provide for them, tenant our groves and our avenues, but 
never dream of becoming our subjects. 

What a labyrinth of a road this is! I do think there are four 
turnings in the short half-mile between the avenue and the mill. 
And what a pity, as my companion observes — not that our good and 
jolly miller, the very representative of the old English yeomanry, 
should be so rich, but that one consequence of his riches should be 
the pulling down of the prettiest old mill that ever looked at itself in 
the Loddon, with the picturesque, low-browed, irregular cottage, 
which stood with its light-pointed roof, its clustered chimneys, and 
its ever-open door, looking like the real abode of comfort and hos¬ 
pitality, to build this huge, staring, frightful, red-brick mill, as ugly 
as a manufactory, and this great square house, ugly and red to 
match, just behind. The old buildings always used to remind me 
of Wollett’s beautiful engraving of a scene in the Maid of the Mill. 
It will be long before any artist will make a drawing of this. Only 
think of this redness in a picture! this boiled lobster of a house! 
Falstaff’s description of Bardolph’s nose would look pale in the 
comparison. 

Here is that monstrous machine of a tilted waggon, with its load 
of flour, and its four fat horses. I wonder whether our horse will 
have the decency to get out of the way. If he does not, I am sure 
we cannot make him; and that enormous ship upon wheels, that ark 
on dry land, would roll over us like the car of Juggernaut. Really — 
Oh no ! there is no danger now. I should have remembered that it 
is my friend Samuel Long who drives the mill team. He will take 
care of us. “Thank you, Samuel!” And Samuel has put us on 
our way, steered us safely past his waggon, escorted us over the 

77 


OUR VILLAGE 


bridge; and now, having seen us through our immediate difficulties, 
has parted from us with a very civil bow and good-humoured smile, 
as one who is always civil and good-humoured, but with a certain 
triumphant masterful look in his eyes, which I have noted in men, 
even the best of them, when a woman gets into straits by attempting 
manly employments. He has done us great good though, and may 
be allowed his little feeling of superiority. The parting salute he 
bestowed on our steed, in the shape of an astounding crack of his 
huge whip, has put that refractory animal on his mettle. On we 
go ! past the glazier’s pretty house, with its porch and its filbert walk; 
along the narrow lane bordered with elms, whose fallen leaves have 
made the road one yellow; past that little farmhouse with the horse- 
chestnut trees before, glowing like oranges; past the whitewashed 
school on the other side, gay with October roses; past the park, and 
the lodge, and the mansion, where once dwelt the great Earl of 
Clarendon; — and now the rascal has begun to discover that Samuel 
Long and his whip are a mile off, and that his mistress is driving him, 
and he slackens his pace accordingly. Perhaps he feels the beauty 
of the road just here, and goes slowly to enjoy it. Very beautiful it 
certainly is. The park paling forms the boundary on one side, with 
fine clumps of oak, and deer in all attitudes; the water, tufted with 
alders, flowing along on the other. Another turn, and the water 
winds away, succeeded by a low hedge, and a sweep of green 
meadows; whilst the park and its palings are replaced by a steep 
bank, on which stands a small, quiet, village alehouse; and higher 
up, embosomed in wood, is the little country church, with its sloping 
churchyard and its low white steeple, peeping out from amongst 
magnificent yew-trees: — 

“ Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth 
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
Up-coiling, and invet’rately convolved.” 

Wordsworth. 

No village church was ever more happily placed. It is the very 
image of the peace and humbleness inculcated within its walls. 

Ah ! here is a higher hill rising before us, almost like a mountain. 
How grandly the view opens as we ascend over that wild bank, over¬ 
grown with fern, and heath, and gorse, and between those tall hollies, 
glowing with their coral berries ! What an expanse ! But we have 
little time to gaze at present; for that piece of perversity, our horse, 

78 


OUR VILLAGE 


who has walked over so much level ground, has now, inspired, I 
presume, by a desire to revisit his stable, taken it into that unaccount¬ 
able noddle of his to trot up this, the very steepest hill in the county. 
Here we are on the top; and in five minutes we have reached the 
lawn gate, and are in the very midst of that beautiful piece of art or 
nature (I do not know to which class it belongs), the pleasure-ground 
of F. Hill. Never was the “prophetic eye of taste” exerted with 
more magical skill than in these plantations. Thirty years ago this 
place had no existence; it was a mere undistinguished tract of field 
and meadow and common land; now it is a mimic forest, delighting 
the eye with the finest combinations of trees and shrubs, the rarest 
effects of form and foliage, and bewildering the mind with its green 
gjades, and impervious recesses, and apparently interminable ex¬ 
tent. It is the triumph of landscape gardening, and never more 
beautiful than in this autumn sunset, lighting up the ruddy beech 
and the spotted sycamore, and gilding the shining fir-cones that hang 
so thickly amongst the dark pines. The robins are singing around 
us, as if they too felt the magic of the hour. How gracefully the 
road winds through the leafy labyrinth, leading imperceptibly to the 
more ornamented sweep. Here we are at the door amidst gera¬ 
niums, and carnations, and jasmines, still in flower. Ah ! here is a 
flower sweeter than all, a bird gayer than the robin, the little bird 
that chirps to the tune of “mamma! mamma!” the bright-faced 
fairy, whose tiny feet come pattering along, making a merry music, 
mamma’s own Frances! And following her guidance, here we are 
in the dear round room time enough to catch the last rays of the sun, 
as they light the noble landscape which lies like a panorama around 
us, lingering longest on that long island of old thorns and stunted 
oaks, the oasis of B. Heath, and then vanishing in a succession of 
gorgeous clouds. 

October 28th. — Another soft and brilliant morning. But the 
pleasures of to-day must be written in short-hand. I have left my¬ 
self no room for notes of admiration. 

First we drove about the coppice: an extensive wood of oak, and 
elm, and beech, chiefly the former, which adjoins the park-paling 
of F. Hill, of which demesne, indeed, it forms one of the most de¬ 
lightful parts. The roads through the coppice are studiously wild; 
so that they have the appearance of mere cart-tracks: and the man¬ 
ner in which the ground is tumbled about, the steep declivities, the 
sunny slopes, the sudden swells and falls, now a close narrow valley, 

79 


OUR VILLAGE 


then a sharp ascent to an eminence commanding an immense extent 
of prospect, have a striking air of natural beauty, developed and 
heightened by the perfection of art. All this, indeed, was familiar 
to me; the colouring only was new. I had been there in early 
spring, when the fragrant palms were on the willow, and the yellow 
tassels on the hazel, and every twig was swelling with renewed life; 
and I had been there again and again in the green leafiness of mid¬ 
summer; but never as now, when the dark verdure of the fir-planta¬ 
tions, hanging over the picturesque and unequal paling, partly cov¬ 
ered with moss and ivy, contrasts so remarkably with the shining 
orange-leaves of the beech, already half fallen, the pale yellow of the 
scattering elm, the deeper and richer tints of the oak, and the glossy 
stems of the “lady of the woods,” the delicate weeping birch. The 
underwood is no less picturesque. The red-spotted leaves and 
redder berries of the old thorns, the scarlet festoons of the bramble, 
the tall fern of every hue, seem to vie with the brilliant mosaic of the 
ground, now covered with dead leaves and strewn with fir-cones, 
now, where a little glade intervenes, gay with various mosses and 
splendid fungi. How beautiful is this coppice to-day! especially 
where the little spring, as clear as crystal, comes bubbling out from 
the old “fantastic” beech root, and trickles over the grass, bright 
and silent as the dew in a May morning. The wood-pigeons (who 
are just returned from their summer migration, and are cropping the 
ivy berries) add their low cooings, the very note of love, to the slight 
fluttering of the falling leaves in the quiet air, giving a voice to the 
sunshine and the beauty. This coppice is a place to live and die in. 
But we must go. And how fine is the ascent which leads us again 
into the world, past those cottages hidden as in a pit, and by that 
hanging orchard and that rough heathy bank ! The scenery in this 
one spot has a wildness, an abruptness of rise and fall, rare in any 
part of England, rare above all in this rich and lovely but monoto¬ 
nous county. It is Switzerland in miniature. 

And now we cross the hill to pay a morning visit to the family at 
the great house, — another fine place, commanding another fine 
sweep of country. The park, studded with old trees, and sinking 
gently into a valley, rich in wood and water, is in the best style of 
ornamental landscape, though more according to the common rou¬ 
tine of gentlemen’s seats than the singularly original place which we 
have just left. There is, however, one distinctive beauty in the 
grounds of the great house; — the magnificent firs which shade the 

8o 


OUR VILLAGE 


terraces and surround the sweep, giving out in summer odours really 
Sabaean, and now in this low autumn sun producing an effect almost 
magical, as the huge red trunks, garlanded with ivy, stand out from 
the deep shadows like an army of giants. Indoors — Oh I must 
not take my readers indoors, or we shall never get away! — Indoors 
the sunshine is brighter still; for there, in a lofty, lightsome room, 
sat a damsel fair and arch and piquante , one whom Titian or Velas¬ 
quez should be born again to paint, leaning over an instrument* as 
sparkling and fanciful as herself, singing pretty French romances, 
and Scottish Jacobite songs, and all sorts of graceful and airy droll¬ 
eries picked up I know not where — an English improvisatrice ! a 
gayer Annot Lyle ! whilst her sister, of a higher order of beauty, and 
with an earnest kindness in her smile that deepens its power, lends 
to the piano, as her father to the violin, an expression, a sensibility, a 
spirit, an eloquence almost superhuman — almost divine ! Oh to 
hear these two instruments accompanying my dear companion (I 
forgot to say that she is a singer worthy to be so accompanied) in 
Haydn’s exquisite canzonet, “She never told her love,” —to hear 
her voice, with all its power, its sweetness, its gush of sound, so sus¬ 
tained and assisted by modulations that rivalled its intensity of ex¬ 
pression ; to hear at once such poetry, such music, such execution, 
is a pleasure never to be forgotten, or mixed with meaner things. I 
seem to hear it still. 

As in the bursting spring time o’er the eye 

Of one who haunts the fields fair visions creep 
Beneath the closed lids (afore dull sleep 
Dims the quick fancy) of sweet flowers that lie 
On grassy banks, oxlip of orient dye, 

And palest primrose and blue violet, 

All in their fresh and dewy beauty set, 

Pictured within the sense, and will not fly: 

So in mine ear resounds and lives again 
One mingled melody, — a voice, a pair 
Of instruments most voice-like! Of the air 
Rather than of the earth seems that high strain, 

A spirit’s song, and worthy of the train 

That soothed old Prospero with music rare. 

* The dital harp. 


81 


OUR VILLAGE 


XIV. 

HANNAH BINT 

T HE Shaw, leading to Hannah Bint’s habitation, is, as I perhaps 
have said before, a very pretty mixture of wood and coppice; 
that is to say, a tract of thirty or forty acres covered with fine growing 
timber — ash, and oak, and elm, very regularly planted; and inter¬ 
spersed here and there with large patches of underwood, hazel, 
maple, birch, holly, and hawthorn, woven into almost impenetrable 
thickets by long wreaths of the bramble, the briony, and the brier- 
rose, or by the pliant and twisting garlands of the wild honeysuckle. 
In other parts, the Shaw is quite clear of its bosky undergrowth, and 
clothed only with large beds of feathery fern, or carpets of flowers, 
primroses, orchises, cowslips, ground-ivy, crane’s-bill, cotton-grass, 
Solomon’s seal, and forget-me-not, crowded together with a profu¬ 
sion and brilliancy of colour, such as I have rarely seen equalled 
even in a garden. Here the wild hyacinth really enamels the ground 
with its fresh and lovely purple; there, 

“ On aged roots, with bright green mosses clad, 

Dwells the wood-sorrel, with its bright thin leaves 
Heart-shaped and triply folded, and its root 
Creeping like beaded coral; whilst around 
Flourish the copse’s pride, anemones, 

With rays like golden studs on ivory laid 
Most delicate ; but touch’d with purple clouds, 

Fit crown for April’s fair but changeful brow.” 

The variety is much greater than I have enumerated; for the ground 
is so unequal, now swelling in gentle ascents, now dimpling into 
dells and hollows, and the soil so different in different parts, that 
the sylvan Flora is unusually extensive and complete. 

The season is, however, now too late for this floweriness; and 
except the tufted woodbines, which have continued in bloom during 
the whole of this lovely autumn, and some lingering garlands of the 
purple wild vetch, wreathing round the thickets, and uniting with 
the ruddy leaves of the bramble, and the pale festoons of the briony, 
there is little to call one’s attention from the grander beauties of the 
trees — the sycamore, its broad leaves already spotted — the oak, 

82 


OUR VILLAGE 


heavy with acorns — and the delicate shining rind of the weeping 
birch, “the lady of the woods,” thrown out in strong relief from a 
background of holly and hawthorn, each studded with coral berries, 
and backed with old beeches, beginning to assume the rich tawny 
hue which makes them perhaps the most picturesque of autumnal 
trees, as the transparent freshness of their young foliage is un¬ 
doubtedly the choicest ornament of the forest in spring. 

A sudden turn round one of these magnificent beeches brings us 
to the boundary of the Shaw, and leaning upon a rude gate, we look 
over an open space of about ten acres of ground, still more varied 
and broken than that which we have passed, and surrounded on all 
sides by thick woodland. As a piece of colour, nothing can be well 
finer. The ruddy glow of the heath-flower, contrasting, on the one 
hand, with the golden-blossomed furze — on the other, with a patch 
of buck-wheat, of which the bloom is not past, although the grain be 
ripening, the beautiful buck-wheat, whose transparent leaves and 
stalks are so brightly tinged with vermilion, while the delicate pink- 
white of the flower, a paler persicaria, has a feathery fall, at once so 
rich and so graceful, and a fresh and reviving odour, like that of 
birch trees in the dew of a May evening. The bank that surmounts 
this attempt at cultivation is crowned with the late foxglove and the 
stately mullein; the pasture of which so great a part of the waste 
consists, looks as green as an emerald; a clear pond, with the bright 
sky reflected in it, lets light into the picture; the white cottage of the 
keeper peeps from the opposite coppice; and the vine-covered 
dwelling of Hannah Bint rises from amidst the pretty garden, which 
lies bathed in the sunshine around it. 

The living and moving accessories are all in keeping with the 
cheerfulness and repose of the landscape. Hannah’s cow grazing 
quietly beside the keeper’s pony; a brace of fat pointer puppies 
holding amicable intercourse with a litter of young pigs; ducks, 
geese, cocks, hens, and chickens scattered over the turf; Hannah 
herself sallying forth from the cottage-door, with her milk-bucket in 
her hand, and her little brother following with the milking-stool. 

My friend, Hannah Bint, is by no means an ordinary person. 
Her father, Jack Bint (for in all his life he never arrived at the dig¬ 
nity of being called John, indeed in our parts he was commonly 
known by the cognomen of London Jack), was a drover of high 
repute in his profession. No man, between Salisbury Plain and 
Smithfield, was thought to conduct a flock of sheep so skilfully 

83 


OUR VILLAGE 


through all the difficulties of lanes and commons, streets and high¬ 
roads, as Jack Bint, aided by Jack Bint’s famous dog, Watch; for 
Watch’s rough, honest face, black, with a little white about the 
muzzle, and one white ear, was as well known at fairs and markets 
as his master’s equally honest and w r eather-beaten visage. Lucky 
was the dealer that could secure their services; Watch being re¬ 
nowned for keeping a flock together better than any shepherd’s dog 
on the road — Jack, for delivering them more punctually, and in 
better condition. No man had a more thorough knowledge of the 
proper night stations, where good feed might be procured for his 
charge, and good liquor for Watch and himself; Watch, like other 
sheep dogs, being accustomed to live chiefly on bread and beer. 
His master, though not averse to a pot of good double X, preferred 
gin; and they who plod slowly along, through wet and weary ways, 
in frost and in fog, have undoubtedly a stronger temptation to in¬ 
dulge in that cordial and reviving stimulus, than we water-drinkers, 
sitting in warm and comfortable rooms, can readily imagine. For 
certain, our drover could never resist the gentle seduction of the 
gin-bottle, and being of a free, merry, jovial temperament, one of 
those persons commonly called good fellows, who like to see others 
happy in the same way with themselves, he was apt to circulate it at 
his own expense, to the great improvement of his popularity, and the 
great detriment of his finances. 

All this did vastly well whilst his earnings continued proportionate 
to his spendings, and the little family at home were comfortably sup¬ 
ported by his industry: but when a rheumatic fever came on, one 
hard winter, and finally settled in his limbs, reducing the most 
active and hardy man in the parish to the state of a confirmed cripple, 
then his reckless improvidence stared him in the face; and poor Jack, 
a thoughtless, but kind creature, and a most affectionate father, looked 
at his three motherless children with the acute misery of a parent 
who has brought those whom he loves best in the world to abject 
destitution. He found help, where he probably least expected it, 
in the sense and spirit of his young daughter, a girl of twelve years 
old. 

Hannah was the eldest of the family, and had, ever since her 
mother’s death, which event had occurred two or three years before, 
been accustomed to take the direction of their domestic concerns, 
• to manage her two brothers, to feed the pigs and the poultrv, and 
to keep house during the almost constant absence of her father. 

84 





Jack Bint, aided by Jack Bint’s famous dog, Watch. 













































* 


OUR VILLAGE 


She was a quick, clever lass, of a high spirit, a firm temper, some 
pride, and a horror of accepting parochial relief, which is every day 
becoming rarer amongst the peasantry; but which forms the surest 
safeguard to the sturdy independence of the English character. 
Our little damsel possessed this quality in perfection; and when 
her father talked of giving up their comfortable cottage, and re¬ 
moving to the workhouse, whilst she and her brothers must go to 
service, Hannah formed a bold resolution, and without disturbing 
the sick man by any participation of her hopes and fears, proceeded 
after settling their trifling affairs to act at once on her own plans and 
designs. 

Careless of the future as the poor drover had seemed, he had yet 
kept clear of debt, and by subscribing constantly to a benefit club, 
had secured a pittance that might at least assist in supporting him 
during the long years of sickness and helplessness to which he was 
doomed to look forward. This his daughter knew. She knew also, 
that the employer in whose service his health had suffered so severely, 
was a rich and liberal cattle-dealer in the neighbourhood, who 
would willingly aid an old and faithful servant, and had, indeed, 
come forward with offers of money. To assistance from such a 
quarter Hannah saw no objection. Farmer Oakley and the parish 
were quite distinct things. Of him, accordingly, she asked, not 
money, but something much more in his own way — “a cow! any 
cow ! old or lame, or what not, so that it were a cow! she would be 
bound to keep it well; if she did not, he might take it back again. 
She even hoped to pay for it by and by, by instalments, but that she 
would not promise!” and, partly amused, partly interested by the 
child’s earnestness, the wealthy yeoman gave her, not as a purchase, 
but as a present, a very fine young Alderney. She then went to the 
lord of the manor, and, with equal knowledge of character, begged 
his permission to keep her cow on the Shaw common. “Farmer 
Oakley had given her a fine Alderney, and she would be bound to pay 
the rent, and keep her father off the parish, if he would only let it 
graze on the waste; ” and he too, half from real good nature — half, 
not to be outdone in liberality by his tenant, not only granted the 
requested permission, but reduced the rent so much, that the produce 
of the vine seldom fails to satisfy their kind landlord. 

Now Hannah showed great judgment in setting up as a dairy- 
woman. She could not have chosen an occupation more completely 
unoccupied, or more loudly called for. One of the most provoking 

85 


OUR VILLAGE 


of the petty difficulties which beset people with a small establish¬ 
ment in this neighbourhood, is the trouble, almost the impossibility, 
of procuring the pastoral luxuries of milk, eggs, and butter, which 
rank, unfortunately, amongst the indispensable necessaries of 
housekeeping. To your thoroughbred Londoner, who, whilst 
grumbling over his own breakfast, is apt to fancy that thick cream, 
and fresh butter, and new-laid eggs, grow, so to say, in the country 
— form an actual part of its natural produce — it may be some com¬ 
fort to learn, that in this great grazing district, however the calves 
and the farmers may be the better for cows, nobody else is; that 
farmers’ wives have ceased to keep poultry; and that we unlucky 
villagers sit down often to our first meal in a state of destitution, 
which may w r ell make him content with his thin milk and his Cam¬ 
bridge butter, when compared to our imputed pastoralities. 

Hannah’s Alderney restored us to one rural privilege. Never 
was so cleanly a little milkmaid. She changed away some of the 
cottage finery, which, in his prosperous days, poor Jack had pleased 
himself with bringing home, the china tea-service, the gilded mugs, 
and the painted waiters, for the useful utensils of the dairy, and 
speedily established a regular and gainful trade in milk, eggs, butter, 
honey, and poultry — for poultry they had always kept. 

Her domestic management prospered equally. Her father, who 
retained the perfect use of his hands, began a manufacture of mats 
and baskets, which he constructed with great nicety and adroitness; 
the eldest boy, a sharp and clever lad, cut for him his rushes and 
osiers; erected, under his sister’s direction, a shed for the cow, and 
enlarged and cultivated the garden (always with the good leave of 
her kind patron the lord of the manor) until it became so ample, 
that the produce not only kept the pig, and half kept the family, but 
afforded another branch of merchandise to the indefatigable di¬ 
rectress of the establishment. For the younger boy, less quick and 
active, Hannah contrived to obtain an admission to the charity- 
school, where he made great progress — retaining him at home, 
however, in the hay-making and leasing season, or whenever his 
services could be made available, to the great annoyance of the 
schoolmaster, whose favourite he is, and who piques himself so 
much on George’s scholarship (your heavy sluggish boy at country 
work often turns out quick at his book), that it is the general opinion 
that this much-vaunted pupil will, in process of time, be promoted 
to the post of assistant, and may, possibly, in course of years, rise 

86 


OUR VILLAGE 


to the dignity of a parish pedagogue in his own person; so that his 
sister, although still making him useful at odd times, now considers 
George as pretty well off her hands, whilst his elder brother, Tom, 
could take an under-gardener’s place directly, if he were not too 
important at home to be spared even for a day. 

In short, during the five years that she has ruled at the Shaw cot¬ 
tage, the world has gone well with Hannah Bint. Her cow, her 
calves, her pigs, her bees, her poultry, have each, in their several 
ways, thriven and prospered. She has even brought Watch to like 
butter-milk, as well as strong beer, and has nearly persuaded her 
father (to whose wants and wishes she is most anxiously attentive) 
to accept of milk as a substitute for gin. Not but Hannah hath had 
her enemies as well as her betters. Why should she not? The 
old woman at the lodge, who always piqued herself on being spiteful, 
and crying down new ways, foretold from the first she would come 
to no good, and could not forgive her for falsifying her prediction; 
and Betty Barnes, the slatternly widow of a tippling farmer, who 
rented a field, and set up a cow herself, and was universally dis¬ 
carded for insufferable dirt, said all that the wit of an envious woman 
could devise against Hannah and her Alderney; nay, even Ned 
Miles, the keeper, her next neighbour, who had whilom held entire 
sway over the Shaw common, as well as its coppices, grumbled as 
much as so good-natured and genial a person could grumble, when 
he found a little girl sharing his dominion, a cow grazing beside his 
pony, and vulgar cocks and hens hovering around the buck-wheat 
destined to feed his noble pheasants. Nobody that had been accus¬ 
tomed to see that paragon of keepers, so tall and manly, and pleasant 
looking, with his merry eye, and his knowing smile, striding gaily 
along, in his green coat, and his gold-laced hat, with Neptune, his 
noble Newfoundland dog (a retriever is the sporting word), and his 
beautiful spaniel Flirt at his heels, could conceive how askew he 
looked, when he first found Hannah and Watch holding equal reign 
over his old territory, the Shaw common. 

Yes ! Hannah hath had her enemies; but they are passing away. 
The old woman at the lodge is dead, poor creature; and Betty 
Barnes, having herself taken to tippling, has lost the few friends she 
once possessed, and looks, luckless wretch, as if she would soon die 
too ! — and the keeper ? — why, he is not dead, or like to die; but 
the change that has taken place there is the most astonishing of all — 
except, perhaps, the change in Hannah herself. 

87 


OUR VILLAGE 


Few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were 
less pretty than Hannah Bint. Short and stunted in her figure, 
thin in face, sharp in feature, with a muddled complexion, wild 
sunburnt hair, and eyes whose very brightness had in them some¬ 
thing startling, over-informed, super-subtle, too clever for her age, — 
at twelve years old she had quite the air of a little old fairy. Now, 
at seventeen, matters are mended. Her complexion has cleared; 
her countenance has developed itself; her figure has shot up into 
height and lightness, and a sort of rustic grace; her bright, acute eye 
is softened and sweetened by the womanly wish to please; her hair 
is trimmed, and curled and brushed, with exquisite neatness; and 
her whole dress arranged with that nice attention to the becoming, the 
suitable both in form and texture, which would be called the highest 
degree of coquetry, if it did not deserve the better name of pro¬ 
priety. Never was such a transmogrification beheld. The lass 
is really pretty, and Ned Miles has discovered that she is so. There 
he stands, the rogue, close at her side (for he hath joined her whilst 
we have been telling her little story, and the milking is over!) — 
there he stands — holding her milk-pail in one hand, and stroking 
Watch with the other; whilst she is returning the compliment by 
patting Neptune’s magnificent head. There they stand, as much 
like lovers as may be; he smiling, and she blushing — he never 
looking so handsome nor she so pretty in all their lives. There 
they stand, in blessed forgetfulness of all except each other; as 
happy a couple as ever trod the earth. There they stand, and one 
would not disturb them for all the milk and butter in Christendom. 
I should not wonder if they were fixing the wedding day. 


XV. 


THE FALL OF THE LEAF 


ATOVEMBER SIXTH. — The weather is as peaceful to-day, 
IV as calm, and as mild, as in early April; and, perhaps, an 
autumn afternoon and a spring morning do resemble each other 
more in feeling, and even in appearance, than any two periods of the 
year. There is in both the same freshness and dewiness of the 

88 




As much like lovers. 
































































OUR VILLAGE 


herbage; the same balmy softness in the air; and the same pure 
and lovely blue sky, with white fleecy clouds floating across it. The 
chief difference lies in the absence of flowers, and the presence of 
leaves. But then the foliage of November is so rich, and glowing, 
and varied, that it may well supply the place of the gay blossoms of 
the spring; whilst all the flowers of the field or the garden could 
never make amends for the want of leaves, — that beautiful and 
graceful attire in which nature has clothed the rugged forms of trees 
— the verdant drapery to which the landscape owes its loveliness, 
and the forests their glory. 

If choice must be between two seasons, each so full of charm, it is 
at least no bad philosophy to prefer the present good, even whilst 
looking gratefully back, and hopefully forward, to the past and the 
future. And of a surety, no fairer specimen of a November day 
could well be found than this, — a day made to wander 

“ By yellow commons and birch-shaded hollows, 

And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes ; ” 

nor could a prettier country be found for our walk than this shady 
and yet sunny Berkshire, where the scenery, without rising into 
grandeur or breaking into wildness, is so peaceful, so cheerful, so 
varied, and so thoroughly English. 

We must bend our steps towards the water side, for I have a mes¬ 
sage to leave at Farmer Riley’s: and sooth to say, it is no unpleas¬ 
ant necessity; for the road thither is smooth and dry, retired, as 
one likes a country walk to be, but not too lonely, which women 
never like; leading past the Loddon — the bright, brimming, trans¬ 
parent Loddon — a fitting mirror for this bright blue sky, and 
terminating at one of the prettiest and most comfortable farmhouses 
in the neighbourhood. 

How beautiful the lane is to-day, decorated with a thousand 
colours! The brown road, and the rich verdure that borders it, 
strewed with the pale yellow leaves of the elm, just beginning to 
fall; hedgerows glowing with long wreaths of the bramble in every 
variety of purplish red; and overhead the unchanged green of the fir, 
contrasting with the spotted sycamore, the tawny beech, and the 
dry sere leaves of the oak, which rustle as the light wind passes 
through them; a few common hardy yellow flowers (for yellow is 
the common colour of flowers, whether wild or cultivated, as blue 
is the rare one), flowers of many sorts, but almost of one tint, still 

% 


OUR VILLAGE 


blowing in spite of the season, and ruddy berries glowing through 
all. How very beautiful is the lane ! 

And how pleasant is this hill where the road widens, with the group 
of cattle by the wayside, and George Hearn, the little post-boy, 
trundling his hoop at full speed, making all the better haste in his 
work, because he cheats himself into thinking it play! And how 
beautiful, again, is this patch of common at the hilltop with the 
clear pool, where Martha Pither’s children, — elves of three, and 
four, and five years old, — without any distinction of sex in their 
sunburnt faces and tattered drapery, are dipping up water in their 
little homely cups shining with cleanliness, and a small brown 
pitcher with the lip broken, to fill that great kettle, which, when it is 
filled, their united strength will never be able to lift! They are 
quite a group for a painter, with their rosy cheeks, and chubby 
hands, and round merry faces; and the low cottage in the back¬ 
ground, peeping out of its vine leaves and china roses, with Martha 
at the door, tidy, and comely, and smiling, preparing the potatoes for 
the pot, and watching the progress of dipping and filling that useful 
utensil, completes the picture. 

But we must go on. No time for more sketches in these short 
days. It is getting cold too. We must proceed in our walk. Dash 
is showing us the way and beating the thick double hedgerow 
that runs along the side of the meadows, at a rate that indicates 
game astir, and causes the leaves to fly as fast as an east-wind 
after a hard frost. Ah! a pheasant! a superb cock pheasant! 
Nothing is more certain than Dash’s questing, whether in a hedge¬ 
row or covert, for a better spaniel never went into the field; but I 
fancied that it was a hare afoot, and was almost as much startled to 
hear the whirring of those splendid wings, as the princely bird him¬ 
self would have been at the report of a gun. Indeed, I believe that 
the way in which a pheasant goes off, does sometimes make young 
sportsmen a little nervous, (they don’t own it very readily, but the 
observation may be relied on nevertheless), until they get as it were 
broken in to the sound; and then that grand and sudden burst of 
wing becomes as pleasant to them as it seems to be to Dash, who is 
beating the hedgerow with might and main, and giving tongue 
louder, and sending the leaves about faster than ever — very proud 
of finding the pheasant, and perhaps a little angry with me for not 
shooting it; at least looking as if he would be angry if I were a man; 
for Dash is a dog of great sagacity, and has doubtless not lived four 

90 


OUR VILLAGE 


years in the sporting world without making the discovery, that 
although gentlemen do shoot, ladies do not. 

The Loddon at last! the beautiful Loddon! and the bridge, 
where every one stops, as by instinct, to lean over the rails, and gaze 
a moment on a landscape of surpassing loveliness, — the fine 
grounds of the Great House, with their magnificent groups of limes, 
and firs, and poplars grander than ever poplars were; the green 
meadows opposite, studded with oaks and elms; the clear winding 
river; the mill with its picturesque old buildings bounding the scene; 
all glowing with the rich colouring of autumn, and harmonised by 
the soft beauty of the clear blue sky, and the delicious calmness of 
the hour. The very peasant whose daily path it is, cannot cross 
that bridge without a pause. 

But the day is wearing fast, and it grows colder and colder. I 
really think it will be a frost. After all, spring is the pleasantest 
season, beautiful as this scenery is. We must get on. Down that 
broad yet shadowy lane, between the park, dark with evergreens and 
dappled with deer, and the meadows where sheep, and cows, and 
horses are grazing under the tall elms; that lane, where the wild 
bank, clothed with fern, and tufted with furze, and crowned by rich 
berried thorn, and thick shining holly on the one side, seems to vie 
in beauty with the picturesque old paling, the bright laurels, and the 
plumy cedars, on the other; — down that shady lane, until the sud¬ 
den turn brings us to an opening where four roads meet, where a 
noble avenue turns down to the Great House; where the village 
church rears its modest spire from amidst its venerable yew trees: 
and where, embosomed in orchards and gardens, and backed by 
barns and ricks, and all the wealth of the farmyard, stands the spa¬ 
cious and comfortable abode of good Farmer Riley, — the end and 
object of our walk. 

And in happy time the message is said and the answer given, for 
this beautiful mild day is edging off into a dense frosty evening; the 
leaves of the elm and the linden in the old avenue are quivering and 
vibrating and fluttering in the air, and at length falling crisply on 
the earth, as if Dash were beating for pheasants in the tree-tops; 
the sun gleams dimly through the fog, giving little more of light and 
heat than his fair sister the lady moon; — I don’t know a more dis¬ 
appointing person than a cold sun; and I am beginning to wrap my 
cloak closely round me, and to calculate the distance to my own 
fireside, recanting all the way my praises of November, and longing 

91 


OUR VILLAGE 


for the showery, flowery April, as much as if I were a half-chilled 
butterfly, or a dahlia knocked down by the frost. 

Ah, dear me! what a climate this is, that one cannot keep in the 
same mind about it for half an hour together! I wonder, by the way, 
whether the fault is in the weather, which Dash does not seem to 
care for, or in me? If I should happen to be wet through in a 
shower next spring, and should catch myself longing for autumn, 
that would settle the question. 


92 


Gbe Bnalisb 
Comebie Ibumaine 

Seconb Series 


WUTHERING 

HEIGHTS 

BY 

EMILY BRONTE 






ftbe Bnallsb Gomeble Ibumaltte 
Seconb Series 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


BY 


EMILY BRONTE 

n 



NEW YORK 

Cbe Centura Co, 

1906 







LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Cooies Received 

APH 3 1906 

/CopyriKfrt Entry 

Uyk’v k 

CLASS Cts XX?. No. 

/ Lf J yd 

' COPY A. 


Copyright 1906, by 
The Century Co. 

Published April, 1906. 


The De Vinne Press 




PUBLISHER’S NOTE. 

Emily Jane Bronte was born at Thornton, Yorkshire, Eng¬ 
land, in 1818. With her more famous sister Charlotte, and her 
younger sister Anne, she first published under a nom de plume. 
Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell were the names they chose, and the 
sex suggested was made plausible by the curious masculine vigor 
of style that characterized the writings of this remarkable trio. 

“Wuthering Heights,” though duly credited to “Ellis Bell” 
on the title page, was pronounced by many critics of the day an 
earlier production of the author of “Jane Eyre.” 

In her own day and generation Wuthering Heights did not 
bring to the author the commendation and appreciation that 
latterly are being awarded her. By some critics Emily Bronte 
is declared to be the ablest of the sisters, and in Clement K. 
Shorter’s recent biography of Charlotte Bronte, he goes so far 
as to say that “ In my judgment it [Wuthering Heights] is the 
greatest book ever written by a woman.” 

Of the quiet, retiring author little is known. To quote Mr. 
Shorter again ; “ She is as impersonal as Shakespeare.” Accord¬ 
ing to her sister her dominant qualities were vigor of mind and 
simplicity of living. Wuthering Heights is a strange, powerful, 
sombre story of uncouth, unlettered Yorkshire rustics. The wild 
spirit of the moorlands is here vividly pictured by one who was 
herself “a native and a nursling of the moors.” The very word 
“Wuthering” is a provincialism descriptive of the fierce warring 
of the elements over this wind-swept shire. Many of the domi¬ 
nating, uncanny characters of the story were undoubtedly bom 
of intuition acted upon by Emily’s sombre imagination rather 
than the fruit of actual experience or knowledge of the world. 
What Emily Bronte’s place in the world of letters might have 
been had she lived to the full maturity of her powers it is useless 
to conjecture. She died of consumption, in 1848, shortly after 
the publication of her book. 


v 


t 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


CHAPTER I. 

1801.— 

I HAVE just returned from a visit to my landlord — the solitary 
neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a 
beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could 
have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of 
society. A perfect misanthropist’s heaven: and Mr Heathcliff and 
I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. A 
capital fellow! He little imagined how my heart warmed towards 
him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under 
their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, 
with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced 
my name. 

“ Mr Heathcliff! ” I said. 

A nod was the answer. 

“Mr Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour 
of calling as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope 
that I have not inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting 
the occupation of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had 
had some thoughts”- 

“Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,” he interrupted, wincing. 
“I should not allow anyone to inconvenience me, if I could hinder 
it — walk in !” 

The “walk in” was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the 
sentiment, “Go to the deuce:” even the gate over which he leant 
manifested no sympathising movement to the words; and I think 
that circumstance determined me to accept the invitation: I felt 
interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than 
myself. 

When he saw my horse’s breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did 
put out his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up 

3 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


the causeway, calling, as we entered the court — “ Joseph, take Mr 
Lockwood’s horse; and bring up some wine.” 

“Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,” 
was the reflection suggested by this compound order. “No winder 
the grass grows up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge- 
cutters.” 

Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though 
hale and sinewy. “The Lord help us !” he soliloquised in an under¬ 
tone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, 
meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he 
must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejacu¬ 
lation had no reference to my unexpected advent. 

Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr Heathcliff’s dwelling. 
“Wuthering” being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive 
of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy 
weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all 
times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing 
over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end 
of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their 
limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the archi¬ 
tect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply 
set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones. 

Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of 
grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the 
principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling 
griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date “1500,” and 
the name “Hareton Earnshaw.” I would have made a few com¬ 
ments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly 
owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy 
entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate 
his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium. 

One step brought us into the family sitting-room, without any 
introductory lobby or passage: they call it here “the house” pre¬ 
eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I be¬ 
lieve at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether 
into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, 
and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no 
signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fire-place; nor 
any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. 
One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks 

4 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, 
towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The 
latter had never been underdrawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an 
inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes 
and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above 
the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, and a couple of horse- 
pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily painted canisters 
disposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; 
the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures, painted green: one 
or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the 
dresser, reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by 
a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other 
recesses. 

The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraor¬ 
dinary as belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn 
countenance, and stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee- 
breeches and gaiters. Such an individual seated in his arm-chair, 
his mug of ale frothing on the round table before him, is to be seen 
in any circuit of five or six miles among these hills, if you go at the 
right time after dinner. But Mr Heathcliff forms a singular con¬ 
trast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gipsy 
in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a 
gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet 
not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and 
handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people might 
suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a sympathetic 
chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by in¬ 
stinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of 
feeling — to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He’ll love and 
hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to 
be loved or hated again. No, I’m running on too fast: I bestow 
my own attributes over liberally on him. Mr Heathcliff may have 
entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when 
he meets a would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let 
me hope my constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used 
to say I should never have a comfortable home; and only last sum¬ 
mer I proved myself perfectly unworthy of one. 

While enjoying a month of fine weather at the seacoast, I was 
thrown into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real god¬ 
dess in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I “never told 

5 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


my love” vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot 
might have guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at 
last, and looked a return — the sweetest of all imaginable looks. 
And what did I do ? I confess it with shame — shrunk icily into 
myself, like a snail; at every glance retired colder and farther ; till 
finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses, and, over¬ 
whelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, persuaded her 
mamma to decamp. By this curious turn of disposition I have 
gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, 
I alone can appreciate. 

I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards 
which my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by 
attempting to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, 
and was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, 
and her white teeth watering for a snatch. My caress provoked a 
long, guttural snarl. 

“You’d better let the dog alone,” growled Mr Heathcliff in uni¬ 
son, checking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot. 
“She’s not accustomed to be spoiled — not kept for a pet.” Then, 
striding to a side door, he shouted again, “Joseph!” 

Joseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave 
no intimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leav¬ 
ing me vis-a-vis the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep¬ 
dogs, who shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my move¬ 
ments. Not anxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; 
but, imagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I un¬ 
fortunately indulged in winking and making faces at the trio, and 
some turn of my physiognomy so irritated madam, that she sud¬ 
denly broke into a fury and leapt on my knees. I flung her back, 
and hastened to interpose the table between us. This proceeding 
roused the whole hive: half-a-dozen four-footed fiends, of various 
sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens to the common centre. I 
felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects of assault; and parry¬ 
ing off the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker, 
I was constrained to demand, aloud, assistance from some of the 
household in re-establishing peace. 

Mr Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious 
phlegm: I don’t think they moved one second faster than usual, 
though the hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. 
Happily, an inhabitant of the kitchen made more despatch: a lusty 

6 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


dame, with tucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, 
rushed into the midst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that 
weapon, and her tongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided 
magically, and she only remained, heaving like a sea after a high 
wind, when her master entered on the scene. 

“What the devil is the matter?” he asked, eyeing me in a man¬ 
ner that I could ill endure after this inhospitable treatment. 

“\\ hat the devil, indeed !” I muttered. “The herd of possessed 
swine could have had no worse spirits in them than those animals 
of yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of 
tigers!” 

“They won’t meddle with persons who touch nothing,” he re- 
• marked, putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced 
table. “The dogs do right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine?” 

“No, thank you.” 

“Not bitten, are you?” 

“If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter.” 

Heathcliff’s countenance relaxed into a grin. 

“ Come, come,” he said, “you are flurried, Mr Lockwood. Here, 
take a little wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that 
I and my dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive 
them. Your health, sir!” 

I bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it 
would be foolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs: 
besides, I felt loath to yield the fellow further amusement at my ex¬ 
pense ; since his humour took that turn. He — probably swayed by 
prudential consideration of the folly of offending a good tenant — 
relaxed a little in the laconic style of chipping off his pronouns and 
auxiliary verbs, and introduced what he supposed would be a sub¬ 
ject of interest to me, — a discourse on the advantages and disad¬ 
vantages of my’present place of retirement. I found him very in¬ 
telligent on the topics we touched; and before I went home, I was 
encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit to-morrow. He 
evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I shall go, notwith¬ 
standing. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared 
with him. 


7 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


CHAPTER II. 


ESTERDAY afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a 



I mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through 
heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner 
however (N.B. — I dine between twelve and one o’clock; the house¬ 
keeper, a matronly lady, taken as a fixture along with the house, 
could not, or would not, comprehend my request that I might be 
served at five), on mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and 
stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl on her knees surrounded 
by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an infernal dust as she 
extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders. This spectacle drove 
me back immediately; I took my hat, and, after a four miles’ walk, 
arrived at Heathcliff’s garden gate just in time to escape the first 
feathery flakes of a snow-shower. 

On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and 
the air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to re¬ 
move the chain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged cause¬ 
way bordered with straggling gooseberry bushes, knocked vainly 
for admittance, till my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled. 

“Wretched inmates!” I ejaculated mentally, “you deserve per¬ 
petual isolation from your species for your churlish inhospitality. 
At least, I would not keep my doors barred in the day-time. I 
don’t care — I will get in!” So resolved, I grasped the latch and 
shook it vehemently. Vinegar-faced Joseph projected his head 
from a round window of the barn. 

“What are ye for?” he shouted. “T’ Maister’s down i’t’ fowld. 
Go round by th’ end o’ t’ laith, if ye went to spake to him.” 

“Is there nobody inside to open the door?” I hallooed, respon¬ 
sively. 

“There’s nobbut t’ missis; and shoo’ll not oppen’t an ye mak yer 
flaysome dins till neeght.” 

“Why? Cannot you tell her who I am, eh, Joseph?” 

“Nor-ne me! I’ll hae no hend wi’t,” muttered the head, 
vanishing. 

The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay 
another trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a 
pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow 
him, and, after marching through a wash-house, and a paved area 


8 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


containing a coal-shed, pump, and pigeon-cot, we at length arrived 
in the huge, warm, cheerful apartment, where I was formerly re¬ 
ceived. It glowed delightfully in the radiance of an immense fire, 
compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and near the table, laid for 
a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to observe the “missis,” an 
individual whose existence I had never previously suspected. I 
bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me take a seat. She 
looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained motionless 
and mute. 

“Rough weather!” I remarked. “I’m afraid, Mrs Heathcliff, 
the door must bear the consequence of your servants’ leisure attend¬ 
ance: I had hard work to make them hear me.” 

She never opened her mouth. I stared — she stared also: at 
any rate, she kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, ex¬ 
ceedingly embarrassing and disagreeable. 

“Sit down,” said the young man gruffly. “He’ll be in soon.” 

I obeyed; and hemmed, and called the villain Juno, who deigned, 
at this second interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token 
of owning my acquaintance. 

“A beautiful animal!” I commenced again. “Do you intend 
parting with the little ones, madam?” 

“They are not mine,” said the amiable hostess, more repellingly 
than Heathcliff himself could have replied. 

“Ah, your favourites are among these?” I continued, turning to 
an obscure cushion full of something like cats. 

“A strange choice of favourites !” she observed scornfully.. 

Unluckily, it was a heap of dead rabbits. I hemmed once more, 
and drew closer to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wild¬ 
ness of the evening. 

“You should not have come out,” she said, rising and reaching 
from the chimney-piece two of the painted canisters. 

Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a 
distinct view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, 
and apparently scarcely past girlhood: an admirable form, and the 
most exquisite little face that I have ever had the pleasure of behold¬ 
ing; small features, very fair; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden, 
hanging loose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agree¬ 
able in expression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately 
for my susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced hovered 
between scorn, and a kind of desperation,.singularly unnatural to 

9 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


be detected there. The canisters were almost out of her reach; I 
made a motion to aid her; she turned upon me as a miser might 
turn if anyone attempted to assist him in counting his gold. 

“I don’t want your help,” she snapped; “I can get them for my¬ 
self.” 

“I beg your pardon!” I hastened to reply. 

“Were you asked to tea?” she demanded, tying an apron over 
her neat black frock, and standing with a spoonful of the leaf poised 
over the pot. 

“I shall be glad to have a cup,” I answered. 

“Were you asked?” she repeated. 

“No,” I said, half smiling. “You are the proper person to ask 
me.” 

She flung the tea back, spoon and all, and resumed her chair in a 
pet; her forehead corrugated, and her red under-lip pushed out, 
like a child’s ready to cry. 

Meanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly 
shabby upper garment, and, erecting himself before the blaze, 
looked down on me from the corner of his eyes, for all the world 
as if there were some mortal feud unavenged between us. I began 
to doubt whether he were a servant or not: his dress and speech 
were both rude, entirely devoid of the superiority observable in Mr 
and Mrs Heathcliff; his thick, brown curls were rough and uncul¬ 
tivated, his whiskers encroached bearishly over his cheeks, and his 
hands were embrowned like those of a common labourer: still his 
bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed none of a domes¬ 
tic’s assiduity in attending on the lady of the house. In the absence 
of clear proofs of his condition, I deemed it best to abstain from 
noticing his curious conduct; and, five minutes afterwards, the en¬ 
trance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure, from my uncom¬ 
fortable state. 

“You see, sir, I am come, according to promise!” I exclaimed, 
assuming the cheerful; “and I fear I shall be weather-bound for 
half an hour, if you can afford me shelter during that space.” 

“ Half-an-hour ? ” he said, shaking the white flakes from his 
clothes; “I wonder you should select the thick of a snowstorm to 
ramble about in. Do you know that you run a risk of being lost 
in the marshes? People familiar with these moors often miss their 
road on such evenings; and I can tell you there is no chance of a 
change at present.” 

IO 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Perhaps I can get a guide among your lads, and he might stay 
at the Grange till morning — could you spare me one?” 

“No, I could not.” 

“Oh, indeed! Well, then, I must trust to my own sagacity.” 
“Umph!” 

“Are you going to mak th’ tea?” demanded he of the shabby 
coat, shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady. 

“Is he to have any?” she asked, appealing to Heathcliff. 

“Get it ready, will you?” was the answer, uttered so savagely 
that I started. The tone in which the words were said revealed a 
genuine bad nature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a 
capital fellow. When the preparations were finished, he invited 
me with — “Now, sir, bring forward your chair.” And we all, 
including the rustic youth, drew round the table: an austere silence 
prevailing while we discussed our meal. 

I thought, if I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an 
effort to dispel it. They could not everyday sit so grim and taci¬ 
turn; and it was impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, 
that the universal scowl they wore was their every-day countenance. 

“It is strange,” I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of 
tea and receiving another — “it is strange how custom can mould 
our tastes and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of hap¬ 
piness in a life of such complete exile from the world as you spend, 
Mr Heathcliff; yet I’ll venture to say, that, surrounded by your 
family, and with your amiable lady as the presiding genius over 
your home and heart ”- 

“My amiable lady I” he interrupted, with an almost diabolical 
sneer on his face. “Where is she — my amiable lady?” 

“Mrs Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.” 

“Well, yes — Oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken 
the post of ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering 
Heights even when her body is gone. Is that it?” 

Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I 
might have seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of 
the parties to make it likely that they were man and wife. One was 
about forty: a period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish 
the delusion of being married for love by girls: that dream is re¬ 
served for the solace of our declining years. The other did not look 
seventeen. 

Then it flashed upon me — “The clown at my elbow, who is 

11 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


drinking his tea out of a basin and eating his bread with unwashed 
hands, may be her husband: Heathcliff, junior, of course. Here 
is the consequence of being buried alive: she has thrown herself 
away upon that boor from sheer ignorance that better individuals 
existed! A sad pity — I must beware how I cause her to regret 
her choice.” The last reflection may seem conceited; it was not. 
My neighbour struck me as bordering on repulsive; I knew, through 
experience, that I was tolerably attractive. 

“Mrs Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law,” said Heathcliff, cor¬ 
roborating my surmise. He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in 
her direction: a look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set 
of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret 
the language of his soul. 

“Ah, certainly—-I see now: you are the favoured possessor of 
the beneficent fairy,” I remarked, turning to my neighbour. 

This was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and 
clenched his fist, with every appearance of a meditated assault. 
But he seemed to recollect himself presently, and smothered the 
storm in a brutal curse, muttered on my behalf: which, however, I 
took care not to notice. 

“Unhappy in your conjectures, sir,” observed my host; “we 
neither of us have the privilege of owning your good fairy; her mate 
is dead. I said she was my daughter-in-law, therefore, she must 
have married my son.” 

“And this young man is”- 

“Not my son, assuredly.” 

Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to 
attribute the paternity of that bear to him. 

“My name is Hareton Earnshaw,” growled the other; “and I’d 
counsel you to respect it!” 

“I’ve shown no disrespect,” was my reply, laughing internally at 
the dignity with which he announced himself. 

He fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for 
fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity 
audible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant 
family circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more 
than neutralised, the glowing physical comforts round me; and I 
•resolved to be cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third 
time. 

The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a 

12 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


word of sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine 
the weather. A sorrowful sight I saw: dark night coming down 
prematurely, and sky and hills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind 
and suffocating snow. 

“ I don’t think it possible for me to get home now without a guide,” 
I could not help exclaiming. “The roads will be buried already; 
and, if they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in ad¬ 
vance.” 

“Hareton, drive those dozen sheep into the barn porch. They’ll 
be covered if left in the fold all night: and put a plank before them,” 
said Heathcliff. 

“How must I do?” I continued, with rising irritation. 

There was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw 
only Joseph bringing in a pail of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs 
Heathcliff leaning over the fire, diverting herself with burning a 
bundle of matches which had fallen from the chimney-piece as she 
restored the tea canister to its place. The former, when he had 
deposited his burden, took a critical survey of the room, and in 
cracked tones, grated out — 

“Aw wonder how yah can faishion to stand thear i’ idleness un 
war, when all on ’em’s goan out! Bud yah’re a nowt, and it’s no 
use talking — yah’ll niver mend o’ yer ill ways, but goa raight to t’ 
divil, like yer mother afore ye I ” 

I imagined, for a moment, that this piece of eloquence was ad¬ 
dressed to me; and, sufficiently enraged, stepped towards the aged 
rascal with an intention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs Heath¬ 
cliff, however, checked me by her answer. 

“You scandalous old hypocrite!” she replied. “Are you not 
afraid of being carried away bodily, whenever you mention the 
devil’s name? I warn you to refrain from provoking me, or I’ll 
ask your abduction as a special favour. Stop ! look here, Joseph,” 
she continued, taking a long, dark book from a shelf; “I’ll show 
you how far I’ve progressed in the Black Art: I shall soon be com¬ 
petent to make a clear house of it. The red cow didn’t die by 
chance; and your rheumatism can hardly be reckoned among provi¬ 
dential visitations! ” 

“Oh, wicked, wicked!” gasped the elder; “may the Lord de¬ 
liver us from evil! ” 

“No, reprobate! you are a castaway — be off, or I’ll hurt you 
seriously ! I’ll have you all modelled in wax and clay; and the first 

13 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


who passes the limits I fix, shall — I’ll not say what he shall be done 
to — but, you’ll see! Go, I’m looking at you ! ” 

The little witch put a mock malignity into her beautiful eyes, and 
Joseph, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out praying and 
ejaculating “wicked” as he went. I thought her conduct must be 
prompted by a species of dreary fun; and, now that we were alone, 
I endeavoured to interest her in my distress. 

“Mrs Heathcliff,” I said earnestly, “you must excuse me for 
troubling you. I presume, because, with that face, I’m sure you 
cannot help being good-hearted. Do point out some landmarks 
by which I may know my way home: I have no more idea how to 
get there than you would have how to get to London ! ” 

“Take the road you came,” she answered, ensconcing herself in 
a chair, with a candle, and the long book open before her. “It is 
brief advice, but as sound as I can give.” 

“Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or a pit 
full of snow, your conscience won’t whisper that it is partly your 
fault ?” 

“How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn’t let me go to 
the end of the garden-wall.” 

“You! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for 
my convenience, on such a night,” I cried. “I want you to tell me 
my way, not to show it; or else to persuade Mr Heathcliff to give 
me a guide.” 

“Who? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph and I. 
Which would you have?” 

“Are there no boys at the farm?” 

“No; those are all.” 

“Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay.” 

“That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do 
with it.” 

“I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys 
on these hills,” cried Heathcliff’s stern voice from the kitchen en¬ 
trance. “As to staying here, i don’t keep accommodations for 
visitors: you must share a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do.” 

“I can sleep on a chair in this room,” I replied. 

“No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will 
not suit me to permit anyone the range of the place while I am off 
guard ! ” said the unmannerly wretch. 

With this insult, my patience was at an end. I uttered 

14 


an ex- 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


pression of disgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running 
against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see 
the means of exit; and, as I wandered round, I heard another speci¬ 
men of their civil behaviour amongst each other. At first the young 
man appeared about to befriend me. 

“I’ll go with him as far as the park,” he said. 

“You’ll go with him to hell!” exclaimed his master, or whatever 
relation he bore. “And who is to look after the horses, eh?” 

“A man’s life is of more consequence than one evening’s neglect 
of the horses: somebody must go,” murmured Mrs Heathcliff, more 
kindly than I expected. 

“Not at your command !” retorted Hareton. “If you set store 
on him, you’d better be quiet.” 

“Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr Heath- 
cliff will never get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin!” she 
answered sharply. 

“Hearken, hearken, shoo’s cursing on ’em!” muttered Joseph, 
towards whom I had been steering. 

He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, 
which I seized unceremoniously, and, calling out that I would send 
it back on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern. 

“Maister, maister, he’s staling t’ lanthern !” shouted the ancient, 
pursuing my retreat. “Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey, Wolf, 
holld him, holld him!” 

On opening the little door, two hairy monsters flew at my throat, 
bearing me down and extinguishing the light; while a mingled 
guffaw from Heathcliff and Hareton, put the copestone on my rage 
and humiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on 
stretching their paws and yawning, and flourishing their tails, than 
devouring me alive; but they would suffer no resurrection, and I 
was forced to lie till their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: 
then, hatless and trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to 
let me out — on their peril to keep me one minute longer — with 
several incoherent threats of retaliation that, in their indefinite depth 
of virulency, smacked of King Lear. 

The vehemence of my agitation brought on a copious bleeding 
at the nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded. I don’t 
know what would have concluded the scene, had there not been one 
person at hand rather more rational than myself, and more benevo¬ 
lent than my entertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; 

15 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


who at length issued forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. 
She thought that some of them had been laying violent hands on me; 
and, not daring to attack her master, she turned her vocal artillery 
against the younger scoundrel. 

“Well, Mr Earnshaw,” she cried, “I wonder what you’ll have 
agait next! Are we going to murder folk on our very doorstones ? 
I see this house will never do for me — look at t’ poor lad, he’s fair 
choking! .Wisht, wisht! you mun’n’t go on so. Come in, and I’ll 
cure that: there now, hold ye still.” 

With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down 
my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr Heathcliff followed, 
his accidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual moroseness. 

I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy and faint; and thus compelled 
perforce to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give 
me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while 
she condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed 
his orders, whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed. 


CHAPTER III. 

W HILE leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I 
should hide the candle, and not make a noise; for her 
master had an odd notion about the chamber she would put me in, 
and never let anybody lodge there willingly. I asked the reason. 
She did not know, she answered: she had only lived there a year or 
two; and they had so many queer goings on, she could not begin 
to be curious. 

Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced 
round for the bed. The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a 
clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the 
top resembling coach windows. Having approached this structure 
I looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned 
couch, very conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every 
member of the family having a room to himself. In fact, it formed 
a little closet, and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served 
as a table. I slid back the panelled sides, got in with my light, 
pulled them together again, and felt secure against the vigilance of 
Heathcliff, and everyone else. 


16 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books 
piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched 
on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name re¬ 
peated in all kinds of characters, large and small — Catherine Earn - 
shaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again 
to Catherine Linton. 

In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and con¬ 
tinued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw — Heathcliff — Linton, 
till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a 
glare of white letters started from the dark as vivid as spectres — the 
air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the 
obtrusive name, I discovered my candle wick reclining on one of 
the antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of 
roasted calf-skin. I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the 
influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up and spread open the 
injured tome on my knee. It was a Testament, in lean type, and 
smelling dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf bore the inscription — “Cath¬ 
erine Earnshaw, her book,” and a date some quarter of a century 
back. I shut it, and took up another, and another, till I had ex¬ 
amined all. Catherine’s library was select, and its state of dilapi¬ 
dation proved it to have been well used; though not altogether for 
a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen-and- 
ink commentary — at least, the appearance of one — covering every 
morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some were detached 
sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in 
an unformed childish hand. At the top of an extra page (quite a 
treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused to 
behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph, — rudely yet 
powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled within me for 
the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher her 
faded hieroglyphics. 

“An awful Sunday!” commenced the paragraph beneath. “I 
wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substi¬ 
tute — his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious — H. and I are going 
to rebel — we took our initiatory step this evening. 

“All day had been flooding with rain; we could not go to church, 
so Joseph must needs get up a congregation in the garret; and, 
while Hindley and his wife basked downstairs before a comfortable 
fire — doing anything but reading their Bibles, I’ll answer for it — 
Heathcliff, myself, and the unhappy plough-boy, were commanded 

17 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


to take our Prayer-books, and mount: we were ranged in a row, on 
a sack of corn, groaning and shivering, and hoping that Joseph 
would shiver too, so that he might give us a short homily for his own 
sake. A vain idea! The service lasted precisely three hours; and 
yet my brother had the face to exclaim, when he saw us descending, 
‘What, done already?’ On Sunday evenings we used to be per¬ 
mitted to play, if we did not make much noise; now a mere titter is 
sufficient to send us into corners! 

“‘You forget you have a master here,’ says the tyrant. ‘I’ll 
demolish the first who puts me out of temper! I insist on perfect 
sobriety and silence. Oh, boy! was that you? Frances, darling, 
pull his hair as you go by: I heard him snap his fingers.’ Frances 
pulled his hair heartily, and then went and seated herself on her 
husband’s knee; and there they were, like two babies, kissing and 
talking nonsense by the hour — foolish palaver that we should be 
ashamed of. We made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in 
the arch of the dresser. I had just fastened our pinafores together, 
and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes Joseph on an errand 
from the stables. He tears down my handiwork, boxes my ears, 
and croaks — 

“‘T’ maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath no o’ered, und t’ 
sound o’ t’ gospel still i’ yer lugs, and ye darr be laiking! Shame 
on ye! sit ye down, ill childer! there’s good books enough if ye’ll 
read ’em ! sit ye down, and think o’ yer sowls! ’ 

“Saying this, he compelled us so to square our positions that we 
might receive from the far-off fire a dull ray to show us the text of 
the .lumber he thrust upon us. I could not bear the employment. 
I took my dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog- 
kennel, vowing I hated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the 
same place. Then there was a hubbub! 

“‘Maister Hindleyl’ shouted our chaplain. ‘Maister, coom 
hither! Miss Cathy’s riven th’ back off “Th’ Helmet o’ Salvation,” 
un’ Heathcliff’s pawsed his fit into t’ first part o’ “T’ Brooad Way to 
Destruction!” It’s fair flaysome that ye let ’em go on this gait. 
Ech ! th’ owd man wad ha’ laced ’em properly — but he’s goan ! ’ 

“Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing 
one of us by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into 
the back-kitchen; where, Joseph asseverated, ‘owd Nick’ would 
fetch us as sure as we were living: and, so comforted, we each sought 
a separate nook to await his advent. I reached this book, and a pot 

18 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


of ink from a shelf, and pushed the house-door ajar to give me light, 
and I have got the time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my 
companion is impatient, and proposes that we should appropriate 
the dairywoman’s cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under 
its shelter. A pleasant suggestion — and then, if the surly old man 
come in, he may believe his prophecy verified — we cannot be 
damper, or colder, in the rain than we are here.” 

4* 4; *1; 4; 4* *J> 

I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence 
took up another subject: she waxed lachrymose. 

“How little did I dream that Hindley would ever make me cry 
so !” she wrote. “My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pil¬ 
low; and still I can’t give over. Poor HeathclifT! Hindley calls 
him a vagabond, and won’t let him sit with us, nor eat with us any 
more; and, he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens 
to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. He has been 
blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating H. too liberally; 
and swears he will reduce him to his right place”- 

«1« vl* *1* vl * + 1 * *i* 

I began to nod drowsily over the dim page: my eye wandered 
from manuscript to print. I saw a red ornamented title — “Sev¬ 
enty Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First. A Pious 
Discourse delivered by the Reverend Jabes Branderham, in the 
Chapel of Gimmerden Sough.” And while I was, half consciously, 
worrying my brain to guess what Jabes Branderham would make 
of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell asleep. Alas, for the 
effects of bad tea and bad temper! what else could it be that made 
me pass such a terrible night? I don’t remember another that I 
can at all compare with it since I was capable of suffering. 

I began to dream, almost before I ceased to be sensible of my 
locality. I thought it was morning; and I had set out on my way 
home, with Joseph for a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our 
road; and, as we floundered on, my companion wearied me with 
constant reproaches that I had not brought a pilgrim’s staff: tell¬ 
ing me that I could never get into the house without one, and boast¬ 
fully flourishing a heavy-headed cudgel, which I understood to be 
so denominated. For a moment I considered it absurd that I 
should need such a weapon to gain admittance into my own resi¬ 
dence. Then a new idea flashed across me. I was not going there: 

19 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


we were journeying to hear the famous Jabes Branderham preach 
from the text — “Seventy Times Seven;” and either Joseph, the 
preacher, or I had committed the “First of the Seventy-First,” and 
were to be publicly exposed and excommunicated. 

We came to the chapel. I have passed it really in my walks, 
twice or thrice; it lies in a hollow, between two hills: an elevated 
hollow, near a swamp, whose peaty moisture is said to answer all 
the purposes of embalming on the few corpses deposited there. 
The roof has been kept whole hitherto; but as the clergyman’s 
stipend is only twenty pounds per annum, and a house with two 
rooms, threatening speedily to determine into one, no clergyman will 
undertake the duties of pastor: especially as it is currently reported 
that his flock would rather let him starve than increase the living by 
one penny from their own pockets. However, in my dream, Jabes 
had a full and attentive congregation; and he preached — good 
God! what a sermon: divided into jour hundred and ninety parts, 
each fully equal to an ordinary address from the pulpit, and each 
discussing a separate sin! Where he searched for them, I cannot 
tell. He had his private manner of interpreting the phrase, and it 
seemed necessary the brother should sin different sins on every 
occasion. They were of the most curious character: odd trans¬ 
gressions that I never imagined previously. 

Oh, how weary I grew. How I writhed, and yawned, and nod¬ 
ded, and revived ! How I pinched and pricked myself, and rubbed 
my eyes, and stood up, and sat down again, and nudged Joseph to 
inform me if he would ever have done. I was condemned to hear 
all out: finally, he reached the “ First oj the Seventy-First .” At that 
crisis, a sudden inspiration descended on me; I was moved to rise 
and denounce Jabes Branderham as the sinner of the sin that no 
Christian need pardon. 

“Sir,” I exclaimed, “sitting here within these four walls, at one 
stretch, I have endured and forgiven the four hundred and ninety 
heads of your discourse. Seventy times seven times have I plucked 
up my hat and been about to depart — Seventy times seven times 
have you preposterously forced me to resume my seat. The four 
hundred and ninety-first is too much. Fellow-martyrs, have at 
, him! Drag him down, and crush him to atoms, that the place 
which knows him may know him no more!” 

u Thou art the Man!” cried Jabes, after a solemn pause, leaning 
over his cushion. “Seventy times seven times didst thou gapingly 

20 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


contort thy visage — seventy times seven did I take counsel with 
my soul — Lo, this is human weakness: this also may be absolved ! 
The First of the Seventy-First is come. Brethren, execute upon him 
the judgment written. Such honour have all His saints!” 

With that concluding word, the whole assembly, exalting their 
pilgrim’s staves, rushed round me in a body; and I, having no 
weapon to raise in self-defence, commenced grappling with Joseph, 
my nearest and most ferocious assailant, for his. In the confluence 
of the multitude, several clubs crossed; blows, aimed at me, fell 
on other sconces. Presently the whole chapel resounded with rap- 
pings and counter-rappings: every man’s hand was against his 
neighbour; and Branderham, unwilling to remain idle, poured 
forth his zeal in a shower of loud taps on the boards of the pulpit, 
which responded so smartly that, at last, to my unspeakable relief, 
they woke me. And what was it that had suggested the tremendous 
tumult? What had played Jabes’s part in the row? Merely, the 
branch of a fir-tree that touched my lattice, as the blast wailed by, 
and rattled its dry cones against the panes! I listened doubtingly 
an instant; detected the disturber, then turned and dozed, and 
dreamt again: if possible, still more disagreeably than before. 

This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I 
heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I 
heard, also, the fir-bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it 
to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to 
silence it, if possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to 
unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a 
circumstance observed by me when awake, but forgotten. “I must 
stop it, nevertheless!” I muttered, knocking my knuckles through 
the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; 
instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold 
hand ! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to 
draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy 
voice sobbed, “Let me in — let me in!” “Who are you?” I 
asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. “Catherine 
Linton,” it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of Linton ? I had 
read Earnshaw twenty times for Linton); “I’m come home: I’d 
lost my way on the moor! ” As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a 
child’s face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel; 
and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled 
its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood 

21 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


✓ 

ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, “Let mein!” 
and maintained its tenacious gripe, almost maddening me with fear. 
“How can I?” I said at length. “Let me go, if you want me to 
let you in! ” The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the 
hole, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid against it, and 
stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer. I seemed to 
keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the instant I 
listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on! “Begone!” 
I shouted, “I’ll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.” 
“It is twenty years,” mourned the voice: “twenty years. I’ve 
been a waif for twenty years! ” Thereat began a feeble scratching 
outside, and the pile of books moved as if thrust forward. I tried 
to jump up; but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a 
frenzy of fright. To my confusion, I discovered the yell was not 
ideal: hasty footsteps approached my chamber door; somebody 
pushed it open, with a vigorous hand, and a light glimmered through 
the squares at the top of the bed. I sat shuddering yet, and wiping 
the perspiration from my forehead: the intruder appeared to hesi¬ 
tate, and muttered to himself. At last, he said in a half-whisper, 
plainly not expecting an answer, “Is any one'here?” I considered 
it best to confess my presence; for I knew Heathcliff’s accents, and 
feared he might search further, if I kept quiet. With this intention, 
I turned and opened the panels. I shall not soon forget the effect 
my action produced. 

Heathcliff stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers: with 
a candle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the wall 
behind him. The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric 
shock ! the light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet, and 
his agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up. 

“It is only your guest, sir,” I called out, desirous to spare him the 
humiliation of exposing his cowardice further. “I had the mis¬ 
fortune to scream in my sleep, owing to a frightful night-mare. I’m 
sorry I disturbed you.” 

“Oh, God confound you, Mr Lockwood! I wish you were at 
the-” commenced my host, setting the candle on a chair, be¬ 

cause he found it impossible to hold it steady. “And who showed 
you up into this room?” he continued, crushing his nails into his 
palms, and grinding his teeth to subdue the maxillary convulsions. 
“Who was it? I’ve a good mind to turn them out of the house this 
moment! ” 


22 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“It was your servant, Zillah,” I replied, flinging myself on to the 
floor, and rapidly resuming my garments. “I should not care if 
you did, Mr Heathcliff; she richly deserves it. I suppose that she 
wanted to get another proof that the place was haunted, at my ex¬ 
pense. Well, it is — swarming with ghosts and goblins! You 
have reason in shutting it up, I assure you. No one will thank you 
for a doze in such a den!” 

“What do you mean?” asked Heathcliff, “and what are you 
doing? Lie down and finish out the night, since you are here; but, 
for Heaven’s sake! don’t repeat that horrid noise: nothing could 
excuse it, unless you were having your throat cut! ” 

“If the little fiend had got in at the window, she probably would 
have strangled me!” I returned. “I’m not going to endure the 
persecutions of your hospitable ancestors again. Was not the Rev¬ 
erend Jabes Branderham akin to you on the mother’s side? And 
that minx, Catherine Linton, or Earnshaw, or however she was 
called — she must have been a changeling — wicked little soul! 
She told me she had been walking the earth those twenty years: a 
just punishment for her mortal transgressions, I’ve no doubt!” 

Scarcely were these words uttered, when I recollected the asso¬ 
ciation of Heathcliff’s with Catherine’s name in the book, which 
had completely slipped from my memory, till thus awakened. I 
blushed at my inconsideration; but, without showing further con¬ 
sciousness of the offence, I hastened to add — “The truth is, sir, I 
passed the first part of the night in” — Here I stopped afresh — I 
was about to say “perusing those old volumes,” then it would have 
revealed my knowledge of their written, as well as their printed, 
contents: so, correcting myself, I went on, “in spelling over the 
name scratched on that window-ledge. A monotonous occupation, 
calculated to set me asleep, like counting, or”- 

“What can you mean by talking in this way to me?” thundered 
Heathcliff with savage vehemence. “How — how dare you, under 
my roof ? — God ! he’s mad to speak so ! ” And he struck his fore¬ 
head with rage. 

I did not know whether to resent this language or pursue my 
explanation; but he seemed so powerfully affected that I took pity 
and proceeded with my dreams; affirming I had never heard the 
appellation of “Catherine Linton” before, but reading it often over 
produced an impression which personified itself when I had no 
longer my imagination under control. Heathcliff gradually fell 

23 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


back into the shelter of the bed, as I spoke; finally sitting down 
almost concealed behind it. I guessed, however, by his irregular 
and intercepted breathing, that he struggled to vanquish an excess 
of violent emotion. Not liking to show him that I had heard the 
conflict, I continued my toilette rather noisily, looked at my watch, 
and soliloquised on the length of the night: “Not three o’clock yet! 
I could have taken oath it had been six. Time stagnates here: we 
must surely have retired to rest at eight! ” 

“Always at nine in winter, and rise at four,” said my host, sup¬ 
pressing a groan: and, as I fancied, by the motion of his arm’s 
shadow, dashing a tear from his eyes. “Mr Lockwood,” he added, 
“you may go into my room: you’ll only be in the way, coming down¬ 
stairs so early; and your childish outcry has sent sleep to the devil 
for me.” 

“And for me, too,” I replied. “I’ll walk in the yard till day¬ 
light, and then I’ll be off; and you need not dread a repetition of 
my intrusion. I’m now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, 
be it country or town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient com¬ 
pany in himself.” 

“ Delightful company!” muttered Heathcliff. “Take the candle, 
and go where you please. I shall join you directly. Keep out of 
the yard, though, the dogs are unchained; and the house — Juno 
mounts sentinel there, and — nay, you can only ramble about the 
steps and passages. But, away with you! I’ll come in two 
minutes! ” 

I obeyed, so far as to quit the chamber; when, ignorant where 
the narrow lobbies led, I stood still, and was witness, involuntarily, 
to a piece of superstition on the part of my landlord, which belied, 
oddly, his apparent sense. He got on to the bed, and wrenched 
open the lattice, bursting, as he pulled at it, into an uncontrollable 
passion of tears. “Come in! come in!” he sobbed. “Cathy, do 
come. Oh do — once more! Oh ! my heart’s darling! hear me 
this time, Catherine, at last!” The spectre showed a spectre’s 
ordinary caprice: it gave no sign of being; but the snow and 
wind whirled wildly through, even reaching my station, and blow¬ 
ing out the light. 

There was such an anguish in the gush of grief that accompanied 
this raving, that my compassion made me overlook its folly, and I 
drew off, half angry to have listened at all, and vexed at having 
related my ridiculous nightmare, since it produced that agony; 

24 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


though why, was beyond my comprehension. I descended cau¬ 
tiously to the lower regions, and landed in the back-kitchen, where 
a gleam of fire, raked compactly together, enabled me to rekindle 
my candle. Nothing was stirring except a brindled, grey cat, 
which crept from the ashes, and saluted me with a querulous 
mew. 

Two benches, shaped in sections of a circle, nearly enclosed the 
hearth; on one of these I stretched myself, and Grimalkin mounted 
the other. We were both of us nodding, ere anyone invaded our 
retreat, and then it was Joseph, shuffling down a wooden ladder 
that vanished in the roof, through a trap: the ascent to his garret, 

I suppose. He cast a sinister look at the little flame which I had 
enticed to play between the ribs, swept the cat from its elevation, 
and bestowing himself in the vacancy, commenced the operation of 
stuffing a three-inch pipe with tobacco. My presence in his sanc¬ 
tum was evidently esteemed a piece of impudence too shameful for 
remark: he silently applied the tube to his lips, folded his arms, and 
puffed away. I let him enjoy the luxury unannoyed; and after 
sucking out his last wreath, and heaving a profound sigh, he got 
up, and departed as solemnly as he came. 

A more elastic footstep entered next; and now I opened my 
mouth for a “good morning,” but closed it again, the salutation 
unachieved; for Hareton Earnshaw was performing his orisons 
sotto voce, in a series of curses directed against every object he 
touched, while he rummaged a corner for a spade or shovel to dig 
through the drifts. He glanced over the back of the bench, dilating 
his nostrils, and thought as little of exchanging civilities with me as 
with my companion the cat. I guessed, by his preparations, that 
egress was allowed, and, leaving my hard couch, made a move¬ 
ment to follow him. He noticed this, and thrust at an inner door 
with the end of his spade, intimating by an inarticulate sound 
that there was the place where I must go, if I changed my 
locality. 

It opened into the house, where the females were already astir: 
Zillah urging flakes of flame up the chimney with a colossal bellows; 
and Mrs Heathcliff, kneeling on the hearth, reading a book by the 
aid of the blaze. She held her hand interposed between the furnace- 
heat and her eyes, and seemed absorbed in her occupation; de¬ 
sisting from it only to chide the servant for covering her with sparks, 
or to push away a dog, now and then, that snoozled its nose over- 

25 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


forwardly into her face. I was surprised to see Heathcliff there 
also. He stood by the fire, his back towards me, just finishing a 
stormy scene to poor Zillah; who ever and anon interrupted her 
labour to pluck up the corner of her apron, and heave an indignant 
groan. 

“And you, you worthless” — he broke out as I entered, turning 
to his daughter-in-law, and employing an epithet as harmless as 

duck, or sheep, but generally represented by a dash-. “There 

you are, at your idle tricks again! The rest of them do earn 
their bread — you live on my charity! Put your trash away, 
and find something to do. You shall pay me for the plague 
of having you eternally in my sight — do you hear, damnable 
jade ?” 

“I’ll put my trash away, because you can make me, if I refuse,” 
answered the young lady, closing her book, and throwing it on a 
chair. “But I’ll not do anything, though you should swear your 
tongue out, except what I please! ” 

Heathcliff lifted his hand, and the speaker sprang to a safer dis¬ 
tance, obviously acquainted with its weight. Having no desire to 
be entertained by a cat-and-dog combat, I stepped forward briskly, 
as if eager to partake the warmth of the hearth, and innocent of 
any knowledge of the interrupted dispute. Each had enough de¬ 
corum to suspend further hostilities: Heathcliff placed his fists, 
out of temptation, in his pockets; Mrs Heathcliff curled her lip, 
and walked to a seat far off, where she kept her word by playing 
the part of a statue during the remainder of my stay. That was 
not long. I declined joining their breakfast, and, at the first gleam 
of dawn, took an opportunity of escaping into the free air, now clear, 
and still, and cold as impalpable ice. 

My landlord hallooed for me to stop, ere I reached the bottom 
of the garden, and offered to accompany me across the moor. It 
was well he did, for the whole hill-back was one billowy, white 
ocean; the swells and falls not indicating corresponding rises and 
depressions in the ground: many pits, at least, were filled to a level; 
and entire ranges of mounds, the refuse of the quarries, blotted from 
the chart which my yesterday’s walk left pictured in my mind. I 
had remarked on one side of the road, at intervals of six or seven 
yards, a line of upright stones, continued through the whole length 
of the barren: these were erected, and daubed with lime on purpose 
to serve as guides in the dark; and also when a fall, like the present, 

26 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


confounded the deep swamps on either hand with the firmer path: 
but, excepting a dirty dot pointing up here and there, all traces of 
their existence had vanished: and my companion found it necessary 
to warn me frequently to steer to the right or left, when I imagined 
I was following, correctly, the windings of the road. We exchanged 
little conversation, and he halted at the entrance of Thrushcross 
Park, saying, I could make no error there. Our adieux were 
limited to a hasty bow, and then I pushed forward, trusting to 
my own resources; for the porter’s lodge is untenanted as yet. 
The distance from the gate to the Grange is two miles: I believe 
I managed to make it four; what with losing myself among the 
trees, and sinking up to the neck in snow: a predicament which 
only those who have experienced it can appreciate. At any rate, 
whatever were my wanderings, the clock chimed twelve as I entered 
the house; and that gave exactly an hour for every mile of the usual 
way from Wuthering Heights. 

My human fixture and her satellites rushed to welcome me; ex¬ 
claiming, tumultuously, they had completely given me up: every¬ 
body conjectured that I perished last night; and they were wonder¬ 
ing how they must set about the search for my remains. I bid 
them be quiet, now that they saw me returned, and, benumbed 
to my very heart, I dragged upstairs; whence, after putting on dry 
clothes, and pacing to and fro thirty or forty minutes, to restore the 
animal heat, I am adjourned to my study, feeble as a kitten: al¬ 
most too much so to enjoy the cheerful fire and smoking coffee which 
the servant has prepared for my refreshment. 


CHAPTER IV. 

W HAT vain weather-cocks we are! I, who had determined 
to hold myself independent of all social intercourse, and 
thanked my stars that, at length, I had lighted on a spot where it 
was next to impracticable — I, weak wretch, after maintaining till 
dusk a struggle with low spirits and solitude, was finally compelled 
to strike my colours; and, under pretence of gaining information 
concerning the necessities of my establishment, I desired Mrs Dean, 
when she brought in supper, to sit down while I ate it; hoping 

27 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


sincerely she would prove a regular gossip, and either rouse me to 
animation or lull me to sleep by her talk. 

“You have lived here a considerable time,” I commenced; “did 
you not say sixteen years?” 

“Eighteen, sir: I came, when the mistress was married, to wait 
on her; after she died, the master retained me for his house¬ 
keeper.” 

“Indeed.” 

There ensued a pause. She was not a gossip, I feared; unless 
about her own affairs, and those could hardly interest me. How¬ 
ever, having studied for an interval, with a fist on either knee, and 
a cloud of meditation over her ruddy countenance, she ejaculated — 

“Ah, times are greatly changed since then!” 

“Yes,” I remarked, “you’ve seen a good many alterations, I 
suppose ?” 

“I have: and troubles too,” she said. 

“Oh, I’ll turn the talk on my landlord’s family!” I thought to 
myself. “A good subject to start! And that pretty girl-widow, I 
should like to know her history: whether she be a native of the 
country, or, as is more probable, an exotic that the surly indigence 
will not recognise for kin.” With this intention I asked Mrs Dean 
why Heathcliff let Thrushcross Grange, and preferred living in a 
situation and residence so much inferior. “ Is he not rich enough to 
keep the estate in good order?” I inquired. 

“Rich, sir!” she returned. “He has, nobody knows what 
money, and every year it increases. Yes, yes, he’s rich enough to 
live in a finer house than this: but he’s very near — close-handed; 
and, if he had meant to flit to Thrushcross Grange, as soon as he 
heard of a good tenant he could not have borne to miss the chance 
of getting a few hundreds more. It is strange people should be 
so greedy, when they are alone in the world! ” 

“He had a son, it seems?” 

“Yes, he had one — he is dead.” 

“And that young lady, Mrs Heathcliff, is his widow?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where did she come from originally?” 

“Why, sir, she is my late master’s daughter: Catherine Linton 
was her maiden name. I nursed her, poor thing! I did wish Mr 
Heathcliff would remove here, and then we might have been together 
again.” 

28 


1 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“What! Catherine Linton?” I exclaimed, astonished. But a 
minute’s reflection convinced me it was not my ghostly Catherine. 
“Then,” I continued, “my predecessor’s name was Linton?” 

“It was.” 

“And who is that Earnshaw: Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with 
Mr Heathcliff? are they relations?” 

“No; he is the late Mrs Linton’s nephew.” 

“The young lady’s cousin, then?” 

“ Yes; and her husband was her cousin also: one on the mother’s, 
the other on the father’s side: Heathcliff married Mr Linton’s 
sister.” 

“I see the house at Wuthering Heights has ‘Earnshaw’ carved 
over the front door. Are they an old family?” 

“Very old, sir; and Hareton is the last of them, as our Miss 
Cathy is of us — I mean of the Lintons. Have you been to Wuther¬ 
ing Heights? I beg pardon for asking; but I should like to hear 
how she is ! ” 

“Mrs Heathcliff? She looked very well, and very handsome; 
yet, I think, not very happy.” 

“Oh dear, I don’t wonder! And how did you like the master?” 

“A rough fellow, rather, Mrs Dean. Is not that his character?” 

“Rough as a saw-edge, and hard as whinstone! The less you 
meddle with him the better.” 

“He must have had some ups and downs in life to make him 
such a churl. Do you know anything of his history?” 

“It’s a cuckoo’s, sir — I know all about it: except where he was 
born, and who were his parents, and how he got his money, at first. 
And Hareton has been cast out like an unfledged dunnock! The 
unfortunate lad is the only one in all this parish that does not guess 
how he has been cheated.” 

“Well, Mrs Dean, it will be a charitable deed to tell me some¬ 
thing of my neighbours: I feel I shall not rest, if I go to bed; so 
be good enough to sit and chat an hour.” 

“Oh, certainly, sir! I’ll just fetch a little sewing, and then I’ll 
sit as long as you please. But you’ve caught cold: I saw you shiver¬ 
ing, and you must have some gruel to drive it out.” 

The worthy woman bustled off, and I crouched nearer the fire; 
my head felt hot, and the rest of me chill: moreover, I was excited, 
almost to a pitch of foolishness, through my nerves and brain. This 
caused me to feel, not uncomfortable, but rather fearful (as I am still) 

2 9 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


of serious effects from the incidents of to-day and yesterday. She 
returned presently, bringing a smoking basin and a basket of work; 
and, having placed the former on the hob, drew in her seat, evidently 
pleased to find me so companionable. 


Before I came to live here, she commenced — waiting no farther 
invitation to her story — I was almost always at Wuthering Heights; 
because my mother had nursed Mr Hindley Earnshaw, that was 
Hareton’s father, and I got used to playing with the children: I 
ran errands too, and helped to make hay, and hung about the farm 
ready for anything that anybody would set me to. One fine sum¬ 
mer morning — it was the beginning of harvest, I remember — Mr 
Earnshaw, the old master, came downstairs, dressed for a journey; 
and after he had told Joseph what was to be done during the day, 
he turned to Hindley, and Cathy, and me — for I sat eating my 
porridge with them—and he said, speaking to his son, “Now, my 
bonny man, I’m going to Liverpool to-day, what shall I bring you ? 
You may choose what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk 
there and back: sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!” Hind¬ 
ley named a fiddle, and then he asked Miss Cathy; she was hardly 
six years old, but she could ride any horse in the stable, and she 
chose a whip. He did not forget me; for he had a kind heart, 
though he was rather severe sometimes. He promised to bring 
me a pocketful of apples and pears, and then he kissed his children, 
said good-bye, and set off. 

It seemed a long while to us all — the three days of his absence 
— and often did little Cathy ask when he would be home. Mrs 
Earnshaw expected him by supper-time on the third evening and 
she put the meal off hour after hour; there were no signs of his 
coming, however, and at last the children got tired of running down 
to the gate to look. Then it grew dark; she would have had them 
to bed, but they begged sadly to be allowed to stay up; and, just 
about eleven o’clock, the door-latch was raised quietly and in stepped 
the master. He threw himself into a chair, laughing and groaning, 
and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly killed — he would not 
have such another walk for the three kingdoms. 

“And at the end of it, to be flighted to death !” he said, opening 
his great-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms. “See here, 
wife! I was never so beaten with anything in my life: but you 

30 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


must e’en take it as a gift of God; though it’s as dark almost as if 
it came from the devil.” 

We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy’s head, I had a peep at 
a dirty, ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: 
indeed, its face looked older than Catherine’s; yet, when it was set 
on its feet, it only stared round, and repeated over and over again 
some gibberish, that nobody could understand. I was frightened, 
and Mrs Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly 
up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the 
house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for ? What 
he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad? The master 
tried to explain the matter; but he was really half-dead with fatigue, 
and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale of 
his seeing it starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the 
streets of Liverpool; where he picked it up and inquired for its 
owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his 
money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it 
home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there: because 
he was determined he would not leave it as he found it. Well, the 
conclusion was that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr 
Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it 
sleep with the children. 

Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listen¬ 
ing till peace was restored: then, both began searching their father’s 
pockets for the presents he had promised them. The former was 
a boy of fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle 
crushed to morsels in the great-coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, 
when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending on the 
stranger, showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid 
little thing; earning for her pains a sound blow from her father to 
teach her cleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in 
bed with them, or even in their room; and I had no more sense, 
so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it might be gone on 
the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his voice, it 
crept to Mr Earnshaw’s door, and there he found it on quitting his 
chamber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there; I was 
obliged to confess, and in recompense for my cowardice and in 
humanity was sent out of the house. 

This was Heathcliff’s first introduction to the family. On coming 
back a few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment 

31 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


perpetual) I found they had christened him “ Heathcliff ”: it was 
the name of a son who died in childhood, and it has served him 
ever since, both for Christian and surname. Miss Cathy and he 
were now very thick; but Hindley hated him! and to say the truth 
I did the same; and we plagued and went on with him shamefully : 
for I wasn’t reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and the mistress 
never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged. 

He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill- 
treatment: he would stand Hindley’s blows without winking or 
shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath 
and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident and nobody 
was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when 
he discovered his son persecuting the poor, fatherless child, as he 
called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely, believing all he said 
(for that matter, he said precious little, and generally the truth), 
and petting him up far above Cathy, who was too mischievous and 
wayward for a favourite. 

So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; 
and at Mrs Earnshaw’s death, which happened in less than two 
years after, the young master had learned to regard his father as 
an oppressor rather than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of 
his parent’s affections and his privileges; and he grew bitter with 
brooding over these injuries. I sympathised a while; but when 
the children fell ill of the measles, and I had to tend them, and take 
on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed my ideas. Heath¬ 
cliff was dangerously sick: and while he lay at the worst he would 
have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose he felt I did a good 
deal for him, and he hadn’t wit to guess that I was compelled to do 
it. However, I will say this, he was the quietest child that ever 
nurse watched over. The difference between him and the others 
forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me 
terribly: he was as uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, 
not gentleness, made him give little trouble. 

He got through, and the doctor affirmed it was in a great measure 
owing to me, and praised me for my care. I was vain of his com¬ 
mendations, and softened towards the being by whose means I 
earned them, and thus Hindley lost his last ally: still I couldn’t 
dote on Heathcliff, and I wondered often what my master saw to 
admire so much in the sullen boy, who never, to my recollection, 
repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He was not insolent 

32 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


to his benefactor, he was simply insensible; though knowing per¬ 
fectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only to 
speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes. 
As an instance, I remember Mr Earnshaw once bought a couple 
of colts at the parish fair, and gave the lads each one. Heathcliff 
took the handsomest, but it soon fell lame, and when he discovered 
it, he said to Hindley — 

“You must exchange horses with me: I don’t like mine; and if 
you won’t I shall tell your father of the three thrashings you’ve 
given me this week, and show him my arm, which is black to the 
shoulder.” Hindley put out his tongue and cuffed him over the 
ears. “You’d better do it at once,” he persisted, escaping to the 
porch (they were in the stable): “you will have to; and if I speak 
of these blows, you’ll get them again with interest.” “Off, dog!” 
cried Hindley, threatening him with an iron weight used for weigh¬ 
ing potatoes and hay. “Throw it,” he replied, standing still, “and 
then I’ll tell how you boasted that you would turn me out of doors 
as soon as he died, and see whether he will not turn you out directly.” 
Hindley threw it, hitting him on the breast, and down he fell, but 
staggered up immediately, breathless and white; and, had not I 
prevented it, he would have gone just so to the master, and got full 
revenge by letting his condition plead for him, intimating who had 
caused it. “Take my colt, gipsy, then!” said young Earnshaw. 
“And I pray that he may break your neck: take him, and be damned, 
you beggarly interloper! and wheedle my father out of all he has: 
only afterwards show him what you are, imp of Satan. — And take 
that, I hope he’ll kick out your brains! ” 

Heathcliff had gone to loose the beast, and shift it to his own 
stall; he was passing behind it, when Hindley finished his speech 
by knocking him under its feet, and without stopping to examine 
whether his hopes were fulfilled, ran away as fast as he could. I 
was surprised to witness how coolly the child gathered himself up, 
and went on with his intention; exchanging saddles and all, and 
then sitting down on a bundle of hay to overcome the qualm which 
the violent blow occasioned, before he entered the house. I per¬ 
suaded him easily to let me lay the blame of his bruises on the 
horse: he minded little what tale was told since he had what he 
wanted. He complained so seldom, indeed, of such stirs as these, 
that I really thought him not vindictive: I was deceived completely, 
as you will hear. 


33 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


CHAPTER V. 

I N the course of time, Mr Earnshaw began to fail. He had been 
active and healthy, yet his strength left him suddenly; and 
when he was confined to the chimney-corner he grew grievously 
irritable. A nothing vexed him; and suspected slights of his au¬ 
thority nearly threw him into fits. This was especially to be re¬ 
marked if anyone attempted to impose upon, or domineer over, his 
favourite: he was painfully jealous lest a word should be spoken 
amiss to him; seeming to have got into his head the notion that, 
because he liked Heathcliff, all hated, and longed to do him an ill 
turn. It was a disadvantage to the lad; for the kinder among us 
did not wish to fret the master, so we humoured his partiality; and 
that humouring was rich nourishment to the child’s pride and black 
tempers. Still it became in a manner necessary; twice, or thrice, 
Hindley’s manifestation of scorn, while his father was near, roused 
the old man to a fury: he seized his stick to strike him, and shook 
with rage that he could not do it. 

At last, our curate (we had a curate then who made the living 
answer by teaching the little Lintons and Earnshaws, and farming 
his bit of land himself) advised that the young man should be sent 
to college; and Mr Earnshaw agreed, though with a heavy spirit, 
for he said — “Hindley was nought, and would never thrive as 
where he wandered.” 

I hoped heartily we should have peace now. It hurt me to think 
the master should be made uncomfortable by his own good deed. 
I fancied the discontent of age and disease arose from his family dis¬ 
agreements : as he would have it that it did: really, you know, sir, it 
was in his sinking frame. We might have got on tolerably, notwith¬ 
standing, but for two people, Miss Cathy and Joseph, the servant: 
you saw him, I daresay, up yonder. He was, and is yet most likely, 
the wearisomest self-righteous Pharisee that ever ransacked a Bible 
to rake the promises to himself and fling the curses to his neigh¬ 
bours. By his knack of sermonising and pious discoursing, he 
contrived to make a great impression on Mr Earnshaw; and the 
more feeble the master became, the more influence he gained. He 
was relentless in worrying him about his soul’s concerns, and about 
ruling his children rigidly. He encouraged him to regard Hindley 
as a reprobate; and, night after night, he regularly grumbled out a 

34 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


long string of tales against Heathcliff and Catherine: always mind¬ 
ing to flatter Earnshaw’s weakness by heaping the heaviest blame 
on the latter. 

Certainly, she had ways with her such as I never saw a child 
take up before; and she put all of us past our patience fifty times 
and oftener in a day: from the hour she came downstairs till the 
hour she went to bed, we had not a minute’s security that she 
wouldn’t be in mischief. Her spirits were always at high-water 
mark, her tongue always going — singing, laughing, and plaguing 
everybody who would not do the same. A wild, wicked slip she 
was — but she had the bonniest eye, the sweetest smile, and lightest 
foot in the parish; and, after all, I believe she meant no harm; for 
when once she made you cry in good earnest, it seldom happened 
that she would not keep you company, and oblige you to be quiet 
that you might comfort her. She was much too fond of Heathcliff. 
The greatest punishment we could invent for her was to keep her 
separate from him: yet she got chided more than any of us on his 
account. In play, she liked exceedingly to act the little mistress; 
using her hands freely, and commanding her companions: she did 
so to me, but I would not bear shopping and ordering; and so I let 
her know. 

Now, Mr Earnshaw did not understand jokes from his children: 
he had always been strict and grave with them; and Catherine, on 
her part, had no idea why her father should be crosser and less 
patient in his ailing condition, than he was in his prime. His 
peevish reproofs wakened in her a naughty delight to provoke him: 
she was never so happy as when we were all scolding her at once, 
and she defying us with her bold, saucy look, and her ready words; 
turning Joseph’s religious curses into ridicule, baiting me, and doing 
just what her father hated most — showing how her pretended 
insolence, which he thought real, had more power over Heathcliff 
than his kindness: how the boy would do her bidding in anything, 
and his only when it suited his own inclination. After behaving as 
badly as possible all day, she sometimes came fondling to make it 
up at night. “Nay, Cathy,” the old man would say, “I cannot 
love thee; thou’rt worse than thy brother. Go, say thy prayers, 
child, and ask God’s pardon. I doubt thy mother and I must rue 
that we ever reared thee!” That made her cry, at first: and then 
being repulsed continually hardened her, and she laughed if I told 
her to say she was sorry for her faults, and beg to be forgiven. 

35 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


But the hour came, at last, that ended Mr Earnshaw’s troubles 
on earth. He died quietly in his chair one October evening, seated 
by the fireside. A high wind blustered round the house, and roared 
in the chimney: it sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold, 
and we were all together — I, a little removed from the hearth, 
busy at my knitting, and Joseph reading his Bible near the table 
(for the servants generally sat in the house then, after their work 
was done). Miss Cathy had been sick, and that made her still; 
she leant against her father’s knee, and Heathcliff was lying on the 
floor with his head in her lap. I remember the master, before he 
fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair — it pleased him rarely to 
see her gentle — and saying — “Why canst thou not always be a 
good lass, Cathy ? ” And she turned her face up to his, and laughed, 
and answered, “Why cannot you always be a good man, father?” 
But as soon as she Saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and 
said she would sing him to sleep. She began singing very low, till 
his fingers dropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast. 
Then I told her to hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him. 
We all kept as mute as mice a full half-hour, and should have done 
so longer, only Joseph, having finished his chapter, got up and said 
that he must rouse the master for prayers and bed. He stepped 
forward, and called him by name, and touched his shoulder; but 
he would not move, so he took the candle and looked at him. I 
thought there was something wrong as he set down the light; and 
seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them to “frame 
upstairs, and make little din — they might pray alone that evening 
— he had summut to do.” 

“I shall bid father good-night first,” said Catherine, putting her 
arms round his neck, before we could hinder her. The poor thing 
discovered her loss directly — she screamed out — “Oh, he’s dead, 
Heathcliff! he’s dead!” And they both set up a heart-breaking 
cry. 

I joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter; but Joseph asked 
what we could be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in 
heaven. He told me to put on my cloak and run to Gimmerton for 
the doctor and the parson. I could not guess the use that either 
would be of, then. However, I went, through wind and rain, and 
brought one, the doctor, back with me; the other said he would 
come in the morning. Leaving Joseph to explain matters, I ran 
to the children’s room: their door was ajar, I saw they had never 

36 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


laid down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer, 
and did not need me to console them. The little souls were com¬ 
forting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: 
no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they 
did, in their innocent talk: and, while I sobbed and listened, I 
could not help wishing we were all there safe together. 


CHAPTER VI. 

M R HINDLEY came home to the funeral; and — a thing that 
amazed us, and set the neighbours gossiping right and left 
— he brought a wife with him. What she was, and where she was 
born, he never informed us: probably she had neither money nor 
name to recommend her, or he would scarcely have kept the union 
from his father. 

She was not one that would have disturbed the house much on 
her own account. Every object she saw, the moment she crossed 
the threshold, appeared to delight her; and every circumstance that 
took place about her: except the preparing for the burial, and the 
presence of the mourners. I thought she was half silly, from her 
behaviour while that went on: she ran into her chamber, and made 
me come with her, though I should have been dressing the children; 
and there she sat shivering and clasping her hands, and asking re¬ 
peatedly — “Are they gone yet?” Then she began describing with 
hysterical emotion the effect it produced on her to see black; and 
started, and trembled, and, at last, fell a-weeping — and when I 
asked what was the matter? answered, she didn’t know; but she 
felt so afraid of dying ! I imagined her as little likely to die as my¬ 
self. She was rather thin, but young, and fresh-complexioned, and 
her eyes sparkled as bright as diamonds. I did remark, to be sure, 
that mounting the stairs made her breathe very quick: that the least 
sudden noise set her all in a quiver, and that she coughed trouble- 
somely sometimes: but I knew nothing of what these symptoms 
portended, and had no impulse to sympathise with her. We don’t 
in general take to foreigners here, Mr Lockwood, unless they take 
to us first. 

Young Earnshaw was altered considerably in the three years of 
his absence. He had grown sparer, and lost his colour, and spoke 

37 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and dressed quite differently; and, on the very day of his return, 
he told Joseph and me we must thenceforth quarter ourselves in 
the back-kitchen, and leave the house for him. Indeed, he would 
have carpeted and papered a small spare room for a parlour; but 
his wife expressed such pleasure at the white floor and huge glowing 
fire-place, at the pewter dishes and delf-case, and dog-kennel, and 
the wide space there was to move about in where they usually sat, 
that he thought it unnecessary to her comfort, and so dropped the 
intention. 

She expressed pleasure, too, at finding a sister among her new 
acquaintance; and she prattled to Catherine, and kissed her, and 
ran about with her, and gave her quantities of presents, at the 
beginning. Her affection tired very soon, however, and when she 
grew peevish, Hindley became tyrannical. A few words from her, 
evincing a dislike to Heathcliff, were enough to rouse in him all 
his old hatred of the boy. He drove him from their company to the 
servants, deprived him of the instructions of the curate, and in¬ 
sisted that he should labour out of doors instead; compelling him 
to do so as hard as any other lad on the farm. 

Heathcliff bore his degradation pretty well at first, because Cathy 
taught him what she learnt, and worked or played with him in the 
fields. They both promised fair to grow up as rude as savages; the 
young master being entirely negligent how they behaved, and what 
they did, so they kept clear of him. He would not even have seen 
after their going to church on Sundays, only Joseph and the curate 
reprimanded his carelessness when they absented themselves; and 
that reminded him to order Heathcliff a flogging, and Catherine a 
fast from dinner or supper. But it was one of their chief amuse¬ 
ments to run away to the moors in the morning and remain there 
all day, and the after punishment grew a mere thing to laugh at. 
The curate might set as many chapters as he pleased for Catherine 
to get by heart, and Joseph might thrash Heathcliff till his arm 
ached; they forgot everything the minute they were together again: 
at least the minute they had contrived some naughty plan of revenge; 
and many a time I’ve cried to myself to watch them growing more 
reckless daily, and I not daring to speak a syllable, for fear of losing 
the small power I still retained over the unfriended creatures. One 
Sunday evening, it chanced that they were banished from the sitting- 
room, for making a noise, or a light offence of the kind; and when I 
went to call them to supper, I could discover them nowhere. We 

38 


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to me him alone. 


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stay/* “ W dL ;.xc ~b catch :: i I saib: ' y;cT ne er be content 
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serv e the treatment yon receive, ion your bad cor boot Ter/t 
cant, Mf" he said: “wawme! We ran from the lop of Ac 
Heights to the park, without stopping—Catherine completely 
beaten in the race, because she was barefoot. You'® have to seek 
for her shoes in the bog to-morrow. We orer: tbroam mr 
■bn; ■ up the path, and planted ourselves on a 

dower-plot under me drawing-rvxtftt • > nao' v To; nett cam; trom 
thence: they had not put up die shutters, and die curtains were only 
halt closed. Both oi us wore able to kvk in by standing on Ac 
basement, and cfitgjhg to the lec^e, and we saw — ah! it was 
beautiful — a splendid place carpeted with crimson, and c w M iia - 


















WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by 
gold, a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains from the 
centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers. Old Mr and Mrs 
Linton were not there; Edgar and his sister had it entirely to them¬ 
selves. Shouldn’t they have been happy ? We should have thought 
ourselves in heaven! And now, guess what your good children 
were doing ? Isabella — I believe she is eleven, a year younger 
than Cathy — lay screaming at the farther end of the room, shriek¬ 
ing as if witches were running red-hot needles into her. Edgar 
stood on the hearth weeping silently, and in the middle of the table, 
sat a little dog, shaking its paw and yelping; which, from their 
mutual accusations, we understood they had nearly pulled in two 
between them. The idiots ! That was their pleasure ! to quarrel 
who should hold a heap of warm hair, and each begin to cry be¬ 
cause both, after struggling to get it, refused to take it. We laughed 
outright at the petted things; we did despise them! When would 
you catch me wishing to have what Catherine wanted ? or find us 
by ourselves, seeking entertainment in yelling, and sobbing, and 
rolling on the ground, divided by the whole room? I’d not ex¬ 
change, for a thousand lives, my condition here, for Edgar Linton’s 
at Thrushcross Grange — not if I might have the privilege of fling¬ 
ing Joseph off the highest gable, and painting the house-front with 
Hindley’s blood! ” 

“Hush, hush!” I interrupted. “Still you have not told me, 
Heathcliff, how Catherine is left behind?” 

“I told you we laughed,” he answered. “The Lintons heard 
us, and with one accord, they shot like arrows to the door; there 
was silence, and then a cry, £ Oh, mamma, mamma! Oh, papa! 
Oh, mamma, come 'here. Oh, papa, oh!’ They really did howl 
out something in that way. We made frightful noises to terrify 
them still more, and then we dropped off the ledge, because some¬ 
body was drawing the bars, and we felt we had better flee. I had 
Cathy by the hand, and was urging her on, when all at once she 
fell down. ‘Run, Heathcliff, run!’ she whispered. ‘They have 
let the bull-dog loose, and he holds me! ’ The devil had seized 
her ankle, Nelly: I heard his abominable snorting. She did not 
yell out — no! she would have scorned to do it, if she had been 
spitted on the horns of a mad cow. I did, though: I vociferated 
curses enough to annihilate any fiend in Christendom; and I got 
a stone and thrust it between his jaws, and tried with all my might 

40 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


to cram it down his throat. A beast of a servant came up with a 
lantern, at last, shouting ‘Keep fast, Skulker, keep fast!’ He 
changed his note, however, when he saw Skulker’s game. The dog 
was throttled off; his huge, purple tongue hanging half a foot out 
of his mouth, and his pendent lips streaming with bloody slaver. 
The man took Cathy up: she was sick: not from fear, I’m cer¬ 
tain, but from pain. He carried her in; I followed, grumbling 
execrations and vengeance. ‘What prey, Robert?’ hallooed Lin¬ 
ton from the entrance. ‘Skulker has caught a little girl, sir,’ he 
replied; ‘and there’s a lad here,’ he added, making a clutch at me, 
‘who looks an out-and-outer! Very like, the robbers were for put¬ 
ting them through the window to open the doors to the gang after 
all were asleep, that they might murder us at their ease. Hold your 
tongue, you foul-mouthed thief, you ! you shall go to the gallows for 
this. Mr Linton, sir, don’t lay by your gun.’ ‘No, no, Robert,’ 
said the old fool. ‘The rascals knew that yesterday was my rent 
day: they thought to have me cleverly. Come in; I’ll furnish 
them a reception. There, John, fasten the chain. Give Skulker 
some water, Jenny. To beard a magistrate in his stronghold, and 
on the Sabbath, too! Where will their insolence stop? Oh, my 
dear Mary, look here ! Don’t be afraid, it is but a boy — yet the 
villain scowls so plainly in his face; would it not be a kindness to 
the country to hang him at once, before he shows his nature in 
acts as well as features?’ He pulled me under the chandelier, 
and Mrs Linton placed her spectacles on her nose and raised her 
hands in horror. The cowardly children crept nearer also, Isabella 
lisping — ‘ Frightful thing! Put him in the cellar, papa. He’s 
exactly like the son of the fortune-teller that stole my tame pheasant. 
Isn’t he, Edgar?’ 

“While they examined me, Cathy came round; she heard the 
last speech, and laughed. Edgar Linton, after an inquisitive stare, 
collected sufficient wit to recognise her. They see us at church, 
you know, though we seldom meet them elsewhere. ‘That’s Miss 
Earnshaw!’ he whispered to his mother, ‘and look how Skulker 
has bitten her — how her foot bleeds ! ’ 

“‘Miss Earnshaw? Nonsense!’ cried the dame; ‘Miss Earn¬ 
shaw scouring the country with a gipsy! And yet, my dear, the 
child is in mourning — surely it is — and she may be maimed for 
life! ’ 

“‘What culpable carelessness in her brother!’ exclaimed Mr 

41 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Linton, turning from me to Catherine. ‘I’ve understood from 
Shielders’ ” (that was the curate, sir) “ ‘that he lets her grow up 
in absolute heathenism. But who is this? Where did she pick 
up this companion ? Oho! I declare he is that strange acquisition 
my late neighbour made, in his journey to Liverpool — a little 
Lascar, or an American or Spanish castaway.’ 

“ ‘A wicked boy, at all events,’ remarked the old lady, ‘and 
quite unfit for a decent house! Did you notice his language, 
Linton? I’m shocked that my children should have heard it.’ 

“I recommenced cursing — don’t be angry, Nelly — and so 
Robert was ordered to take me off. I refused to go without Cathy; 
he dragged me into the garden, pushed the lantern into my hand, 
assured me that Mr Earnshaw should be informed of my behaviour, 
and, bidding me march directly, secured the door again. The cur¬ 
tains were still looped up at one corner, and I resumed my station 
as spy; because, if Catherine had wished to return, I intended 
shattering their great glass panes to a million of fragments, unless 
they let her out. She sat on the sofa quietly. Mrs Linton took 
off the grey cloak of the dairymaid which we had borrowed for our 
excursion, shaking her head and expostulating with her, I suppose: 
she was a young lady, and they made a distinction between her 
treatment and mine. Then the woman-servant brought a basin of 
warm water, and washed her feet; and Mr Linton mixed a tumbler 
of negus, and Isabella emptied a plateful of cakes into her lap, and 
Edgar stood gaping at a distance. Afterwards, they dried and 
combed her beautiful hair, and gave her a pair of enormous slippers, 
and wheeled her to the fire; and I left her, as merry as she could be, 
dividing her food between the little dog and Skulker, whose nose 
she pinched as he ate; and kindling a spark of spirit in the vacant 
blue eyes of the Lintons — a dim reflection from her own enchant¬ 
ing face. I saw they were full of stupid admiration; she is so im¬ 
measurably superior to them — to everybody on earth, is she not, 
Nelly?” 

“There will more come of this business than you reckon on,” I 
answered, covering him up and extinguishing the light. “You are 
incurable, Heathcliff; and Mr Hindley will have to proceed to 
extremities, see if he won’t.” My words came truer than I desired. 
The luckless adventure made Earnshaw furious. And then Mr 
Linton, to mend matters, paid us a visit himself on the morrow; 
and read the young master such a lecture on the road he guided his 

42 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


family, that he was stirred to look about him, in earnest. Heath- 
cliff received no flogging, but he was told that the first word he 
spoke to Miss Catherine should ensure a dismissal; and Mrs Earn- 
shaw undertook to keep her sister-in-law in due restraint when she 
returned home; employing art, not force: with force she would 
have found it impossible. 


CHAPTER VII. 

C ATHY stayed at Thrushcross Grange five weeks: till Christ¬ 
mas. By that time her ankle was thoroughly cured, and 
her manners much improved. The mistress visited her often in 
the interval, and commenced her plan of reform by trying to raise 
her self-respect with fine clothes and flattery, which she took readily; 
so that, instead of a wild, hatless little savage jumping into the 
house, and rushing to squeeze us all breathless, there ’lighted from 
a handsome black pony a very dignified person, with brown ring¬ 
lets falling from the cover of a feathered beaver, and a long cloth 
habit, which she was obliged to hold up with both hands that she 
might sail in. Hindley lifted her from her horse, exclaiming de¬ 
lightedly, “ Why, Cathy, you are quite a beauty! I should scarcely 
have known you: you look like a lady now. Isabella Linton is not 
to be compared with her, is she, Frances?” “Isabella has not her 
natural advantages,” replied his wife: “but she must mind and 
not grow wild again here. Ellen, help Miss Catherine off with 
her things — stay, dear, you will disarrange your curls — let me 
untie your hat.” 

I removed the habit, and there shone forth beneath, a grand 
plaid silk frock, white trousers, and burnished shoes; and, while 
her eyes sparkled joyfully when the dogs came bounding up to 
welcome her, she dare hardly touch them lest they should fawn 
upon her splendid garments. She kissed me gently: I was all flour 
making the Christmas cake, and it would not have done to give me 
a hug; and, then, she looked round for Heathcliff. Mr and Mrs 
Earnshaw watched anxiously their meeting; thinking it would en¬ 
able them to judge, in some measure, what grounds they had for 
hoping to succeed in separating the two friends. 

Heathcliff was hard to discover, at first. If he were careless, 

43 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and uncared for, before Catherine’s absence, he had been ten times 
more so, since. Nobody but I even did him the kindness to call 
him a dirty boy, and bid him wash himself, once a week; and 
children of his age seldom have a natural pleasure in soap and 
water. Therefore, not to mention his clothes, which had seen 
three months’ service in mire and dust, and his thick uncombed 
hair, the surface of his face and hands was dismally beclouded. 
He might well skulk behind the settle, on beholding such a bright, 
graceful damsel enter the house, instead of a rough-headed counter¬ 
part of himself, as he expected. “Is Heathcliff not here?” she 
demanded, pulling off her gloves, and displaying fingers wonder¬ 
fully whitened with doing nothing and staying indoors. 

“Heathcliff, you may come forward,” cried Mr Hindley, enjoy¬ 
ing his discomfiture, and gratified to see what a forbidding young 
blackguard he would be compelled to present himself. “You may 
come and wish Miss Catherine welcome, like the other servants.” 

Cathy, catching a glimpse of her friend in his concealment, flew 
to embrace him; she bestowed seven or eight kisses on his cheek 
within the second, and then stopped, and drawing back, burst into 
a laugh, exclaiming, “Why, how very black and cross you look ! and 
how—how funny and grim! But that’s because I’m used to Edgar 
and Isabella Linton. Well, Heathcliff, have you forgotten me?” 

She had some reason to put the question, for shame and pride 
threw double gloom over his countenance, and kept him immovable. 

“Shake hands, Heathcliff,” said Mr Earnshaw, condescendingly; 
“once in a way, that is permitted.” 

“I shall not,” replied the boy, finding his tongue at last; “I 
shall not stand to be laughed at. I shall not bear it! ” 

And he would have broken from the circle, but Miss Cathy 
seized him again. 

“I did not mean to laugh at you,” she said; “I could not hinder 
myself: Heathcliff, shake hands at least! What are you sulky 
for? It was only that you looked odd. If you wash your face 
and brush your hair, it will be all right: but you are so dirty! ” 

She gazed concernedly at the dusky fingers she held in her own, 
and also at her dress; which she feared had gained no embellish¬ 
ment from its contact with his. 

“You needn’t have touched me!” he answered, following her 
eye and snatching away his hand. “I shall be as dirty as I please: 
and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty.” 

44 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


With that he dashed head foremost out of the room, amid the 
merriment of the master and mistress, and to the serious disturb¬ 
ance of Catherine; who could not comprehend how her remarks 
should have produced such an exhibition of bad temper. 

After playing lady’s-maid to the new-comer, and putting my 
cakes in the oven, and making the house and kitchen cheerful 
with great fires, befitting Christmas eve, I prepared to sit down 
and amuse myself by singing carols, all alone; regardless of Jo¬ 
seph’s affirmations that he considered the merry tunes I chose as 
next door to songs. He had retired to private prayer in his cham¬ 
ber, and Mr and Mrs Earnshaw were engaging Missy’s attention 
by sundry gay trifles bought for her to present to the little Lintons, 
as an acknowledgment of their kindness. They had invited 
them to spend the morrow at Wuthering Heights, and the invi¬ 
tation had been accepted, on one condition: Mrs Linton begged 
that her darlings might be kept carefully apart from that “ naughty 
swearing boy.” 

Under these circumstances I remained solitary. I smelt the 
rich scent of the heating spices; and admired the shining kitchen 
utensils, the polished clock, decked in holly, the silver mugs ranged 
on a tray ready to be filled with mulled ale for supper; and above 
all, the speckless purity of my particular care — the scoured and 
well-swept floor. I gave due inward applause to every object, 
and then I remembered how old Earnshaw used to come in when 
all was tidied, and call me a cant lass, and slip a shilling into my 
hand as a Christmas-box; and from that I went on to think of 
his fondness for Heathcliff, and his dread lest he should suffer 
neglect after death had removed him; and that naturally led me 
to consider the poor lad’s situation now, and from singing I changed 
my mind to crying. It struck me soon, however, there would be 

more sense in endeavouring to repair some of his wrongs than 

£ 

shedding tears over them: I got up and walked into the court to 
seek him. He was not far; I found him smoothing the glossy 
coat of the new pony in the stable, and feeding the other beasts, 
according to custom. 

“Make haste, Heathcliff!” I said, “the kitchen is so com¬ 
fortable; and Joseph is upstairs: make haste, and let me dress 
you smart before Miss Cathy comes out, and then you can sit 
together, with the whole hearth to yourselves, and have a long 
chatter till bedtime.” 


45 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


He proceeded with his task and never turned his head towards 
me. 

“Come — are you coming?” I continued. “There’s a little 
cake for each of you, nearly enough; and you’ll need half an 
hour’s donning.” 

I waited five minutes, but getting no answer, left him. Cath¬ 
erine supped with her brother and sister-in-law: Joseph and I 
joined at an unsociable meal, seasoned with reproofs on one side 
and sauciness on the other. His cake and cheese remained on 
the table all night for the fairies. He managed to continue work 
till nine o’clock, and then marched dumb and dour to his cham¬ 
ber. Cathy sat up late, having a world of things to order for the 
reception of her new friends: she came into the kitchen once to 
speak to her old one; but he was gone, and she only stayed to ask 
what was the matter with him, and then went back. In the morn¬ 
ing he rose early; and as it was a holiday carried his ill-humour 
on to the moors; not re-appearing till the family were departed 
for church. Fasting and reflection seemed to have brought him 
to a better spirit. He hung about me for a while, and having 
screwed up his courage, exclaimed abruptly: 

“Nelly, make me decent, I’m going to be good.” 

“High time, Heathcliff,” I said; “you have grieved Cather¬ 
ine : she’s sorry she ever came home, I daresay! It looks as if 
you envied her, because she is more thought of than you.” 

The notion of envying Catherine was incomprehensible to him, 
but the notion of grieving her he understood clearly enough. 

“Did she say she was grieved?” he inquired, looking very 
serious. 

“She cried when I told her you were off again this morning.” 

“Well, / cried last night,” he returned, “and I had more reason 
to cry than she.” 

“Yes: you had the reason of going to bed with a proud heart 
and an empty stomach,” said I. “Proud people breed sad sor¬ 
rows for themselves. But, if you be ashamed of your touchiness, 
you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in. You must go 
up and offer to kiss her, and say — you know best what to say; 
only do it heartily, and not as if you thought her converted into a 
stranger by her grand dress. And now, though I have dinner to 
get ready, I’ll steal time to arrange you so that Edgar Linton shall 
look quite a doll beside you: and that he does. You are younger, 

46 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and yet, I’ll be bound, you are taller and twice as broad across the 
shoulders: you could knock him down in a twinkling. Don’t 
you feel that you could?” 

Heathcliff’s face brightened a moment; then it was overcast 
afresh, and he sighed. 

“But, Nelly, if I knocked him down twenty times, that wouldn’t 
make him less handsome or me more so. I wish I had light hair 
and a fair skin, and was dressed and behaved as well, and had a 
chance of being as rich as he will be!” 

“And cried for mamma at every turn,” I added, “and trembled 
if a country lad heaved his fist against you, and sat at home all 
day for a shower of rain. Oh, Heathcliff, you are showing a poor 
spirit! Come to the glass, and I’ll let you see what you should 
wish. Do you mark those two lines between your eyes; and those 
thick brows, that instead of rising arched, sink in the middle; and 
that couple of black fiends, so deeply buried, who never open their 
windows boldly, but lurk glinting under them, like devil’s spies? 
Wish and learn to smooth away the surly wrinkles, to raise your 
lids frankly, and change the fiends to confident, innocent angels, 
suspecting and doubting nothing, and always seeing friends where 
they are not sure of foes. Don’t get the expression of a vicious 
cur that appears to know the kicks it gets are its desert, and yet 
hates all the world as well as the kicker, for what it suffers.” 

“In other words, I must wish for Edgar Linton’s great blue 
eyes and even forehead,” he replied. “I do — and that won’t 
help me to them.” 

“A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad,” I con¬ 
tinued, “if you were a regular black; and a bad one will turn the 
bonniest into something worse than ugly. And now that we’ve 
done washing, and combing, and sulking — tell me whether you 
don’t think yourself rather handsome ? I’ll tell you, I do. You’re 
fit for a prince in disguise. Who knows but your father was Em¬ 
peror of China, and your mother an Indian queen, each of them 
able to buy up, with one week’s income, Wuthering Heights and 
Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kidnapped by 
wicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I 
would frame high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I 
was should give me courage and dignity to support the oppressions 
of a little farmer!” 

So I chattered on; and Heathcliff gradually lost his frown and 

47 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


began to look quite pleasant, when all at once our conversation 
was interrupted by a rumbling sound moving up the road and 
entering the court. He ran to the window and I to the door, just 
in time to behold the two Lintons descend from the family car¬ 
riage, smothered in cloaks and furs, and the Earnshaws dismount 
from their horses: they often rode to church in winter. Cath¬ 
erine took a hand of each of the children, and brought them into 
the house and set them before the fire, which quickly put colour 
into their white faces. 

I urged my companion to hasten now and show his amiable 
humour, and he willingly obeyed; but ill luck would have it that, 
as he opened the door leading from the kitchen on one side, Hind- 
ley opened it on the other. They met, and the master, irritated 
at seeing him clean and cheerful; or, perhaps, eager to keep his 
promise to Mrs Linton, shoved him back with a sudden thrust, 
and angrily bade Joseph “keep the fellow out of the room — send 
him into the garret till dinner is over. He’ll be cramming his fin¬ 
gers in the tarts and stealing the fruit, if left alone with them a 
minute.” 

“Nay, sir,” I could not avoid answering, “he’ll touch nothing, 
not he: and I suppose he must have his share of the dainties as 
well as we.” 

“He shall have his share of my hand, if I catch him downstairs 
till dark,” cried Hindley. “Begone, you vagabond! What! 
you are attempting the coxcomb, are you ? Wait till I get hold of 
those elegant locks — see if I won’t pull them a bit longer.” 

“They are long enough, already,” observed Master Linton, 
peeping from the doorway; “I wonder they don’t make his head 
ache. It’s like a colt’s mane over his eyes! ” 

He ventured this remark without any intention to insult; but 
Heathcliff’s violent nature was not prepared to endure the appear¬ 
ance of impertinence from one whom he seemed to hate, even then, 
as a rival. He seized a tureen of hot apple sauce (the first thing - 
that came under his gripe) and dashed it full against the speaker’s 
face and neck; who instantly commenced a lament that brought 
Isabella and Catherine hurrying to the place. Mr Earnshaw 
snatched up the culprit directly and conveyed him to his chamber; 
where, doubtless, he administered a rough remedy to cool the fit 
of passion, for he appeared red and breathless. I got the dish¬ 
cloth, and rather spitefully scrubbed Edgar’s nose and mouth, 

4 s 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


affirming it served him right for meddling. His sister began 
weeping to go home, and Cathy stood by confounded, blushing 
for all. 

“You should not have spoken to him!” she expostulated with 
Master Linton. “He was in a bad temper, and now you’ve spoilt 
your visit; and he’ll be flogged: I hate him to be flogged! I 
can’t eat my dinner. Why did you speak to him, Edgar?” 

“I didn’t,” sobbed the youth, escaping from my hands, and 
finishing the remainder of the purification with his cambric pocket- 
handkerchief. “I promised mamma that I wouldn’t say one 
word to him, and I didn’t.” 

“Well, don’t cry,” replied Catherine, contemptuously, “you’re 
not killed. Don’t make more mischief; my brother is coming: 
be quiet! Hush, Isabella! Has anybody hurt you?” 

“There, there, children — to your seats!” cried Hindley, bus¬ 
tling in. “That brute of a lad has warmed me nicely. Next time, 
Master Edgar, take the law into your own fists — it will give you 
an appetite!” 

The little party recovered its equanimity at sight of the fragrant 
feast. They were hungry after their ride, and easily consoled, 
since no real harm had befallen them. Mr Earnshaw carved 
bountiful platefuls, and the mistress made them merry with lively 
talk. I waited behind her chair, and was pained to behold Cath¬ 
erine, with dry eyes and an indifferent air, commence cutting up 
the wing of a goose before her. “An unfeeling child,” I thought 
to myself; “how lightly she dismisses her old playmate’s troubles. 
I could not have imagined her to be so selfish.” She lifted a 
mouthful to her lips; then she set it down again: her cheeks 
flushed, and the tears gushed over them. She slipped her fork to 
the floor, and hastily dived under the cloth to conceal her emotion. 
I did not call her unfeeling long; for I perceived she was in pur¬ 
gatory throughout the day, and wearying to find an opportunity 
of getting by herself, or paying a visit to Heathcliff, who had been 
locked up by the master: as I discovered, on endeavouring to in¬ 
troduce to him a private mess of victuals. 

In the evening we had a dance. Cathy begged that he might be 
liberated then, as Isabella Linton had no partner; her entreaties 
were vain, and I was appointed to supply the deficiency. We 
got rid of all gloom in the excitement of the exercise, and our pleas¬ 
ure was increased by the arrival of the Gimmerton band, mus- 

49 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


tering fifteen strong: a trumpet, a trombone, clarionets, bassoons, 
French horns, and a bass viol, besides singers. They go the 
rounds of all the respectable houses, and receive contributions 
every Christmas, and we esteemed it a first-rate treat to hear them. 
After the usual carols had been sung, we set them to songs and 
glees. Mrs Earnshaw loved the music, and so they gave us plenty. 

Catherine loved it too; but she said it sounded sweetest at the 
top of the steps, and she went up in the dark: I followed. They 
shut the house door below, never noting our absence, it was so 
full of people. She made no stay at the stair’s head, but mounted 
farther, to the garret where Heathcliff was confined, and called 
him. He stubbornly declined answering for a while; she per¬ 
severed, and finally persuaded him to hold communion with her 
through the boards. I let the poor things converse unmolested, 
till I supposed the songs were going to cease, and the singers to 
get some refreshment; then, I clambered up the ladder to warn 
her. Instead of finding her outside, I heard her voice within. 
The little monkey had crept by the skylight of one garret, along 
the roof, into the skylight of the other, and it was with the utmost 
difficulty I could coax her out again. When she did come Heath- 
cliff came with her, and she insisted that I should take him into 
the kitchen, as my fellow-servant had gone to a neighbour’s to be 
removed from the sound of our “devil’s psalmody,” as it pleased 
him to call it. I told them I intended by no means to encourage 
their tricks; but as the prisoner had never broken his fast since 
yesterday’s dinner, I would wink at his cheating Mr Hindley that 
once. He went down; I set him a stool by the fire, and offered 
him a quantity of good things; but he was sick and could eat little, 
and my attempts to entertain him were thrown away. He leant 
his two elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands, and re¬ 
mained wrapt in dumb meditation. On my inquiring the subject 
of his thoughts, he answered gravely — 

“I’m trying to settle how I shall pay Hindley back. I don’t 
care how long I wait, if I can only do it at last. I hope he will 
not die before I do!” 

“For shame, Heathcliff!” said I. “It is for God to punish 
wicked people; we should learn to forgive.” 

“No, God won’t have the satisfaction that I shall,” he returned. 
“I only wish I knew the best way! Let me alone, and I’ll plan 
it out: while I’m thinking of that I don’t feel pain.” 

50 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


But, Mr Lockwood, I forget these tales cannot divert you. I’m 
annoyed how I should dream of chattering on at such a rate; and 
your gruel cold, and you nodding for bed! I could have told 
Heathcliff’s history, all that you need hear, in half-a-dozen words. 
Thus interrupting herself, the housekeeper rose, and proceeded to 
lay aside her sewing; but I felt incapable of moving from the 
hearth, and I was very far from nodding. “Sit still, Mrs Dean,” 
I cried, “do sit still, another half-hour! You’ve done just right 
to tell the story leisurely. That is the method I like; and you 
must finish it in the same style. I am interested in every character 
you have mentioned, more or less.” 

“The clock is on the stroke of eleven, sir.” 

“No matter — I’m not accustomed to go to bed in the long 
hours. One or two is early enough for a person who lies till ten.” 

“You shouldn’t lie till ten. There’s the very prime of the morn¬ 
ing gone long before that time. A person who has not done one 
half his day’s work by ten o’clock, runs a chance of leaving the 
other half undone.” 

“Nevertheless, Mrs Dean, resume your chair; because to-mor¬ 
row I intend lengthening the night till afternoon. I prognosticate 
for myself an obstinate cold, at least.” 

“I hope not, sir. Well, you must allow me to leap over some 
three years; during that space Mrs Earnshaw”- 

“No, no, I’ll allow nothing of the sort! Are you acquainted 
with the mood of mind in which, if you were seated alone, and the 
cat licking its kitten on the rug before you, you would watch the 
operation so intently that puss’s neglect of one ear would put you 
seriously out of temper?” 

“A terribly lazy mood, I should say.” 

“On the contrary, a tiresomely active one. It is mine, at pres¬ 
ent; and, therefore, continue minutely. I perceive that people 
in these regions acquire over people in towns the value that the 
spider in a dungeon does over a spider in a cottage, to their vari¬ 
ous occupants; and yet the deepened attraction is not entirely 
owing to the situation of the looker-on. They do live more in 
earnest, more in themselves, and less in surface, change, and friv¬ 
olous external things. I could fancy a love for life here almost 
possible; and I was a fixed unbeliever in any love of a year’s stand¬ 
ing. One state resembles setting a hungry man down to a single 
dish, on which he may concentrate his entire appetite and do it 

51 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


justice; the other, introducing him to a table laid out by French 
cooks: he can perhaps extract as much enjoyment from the whole; 
but each part is a mere atom in his regard and remembrance.” 

“Oh! here we are the same as anywhere else, when you get to 
know us,” observed Mrs Dean, somewhat puzzled at my speech. 

“Excuse me,” I responded; “you, my good friend, are a strik¬ 
ing evidence against that assertion. Excepting a few provin¬ 
cialisms of slight consequence, you have no marks of the manners 
which I am habituated to consider as peculiar to your class. I 
am sure you have thought a great deal more than the generality 
of servants think. You have been compelled to cultivate your 
reflective faculties for want of occasions for frittering your life 
away in silly trifles.” 

Mrs Dean laughed. 

“I certainly esteem myself a steady, reasonable kind of body,” 
she said; “not exactly from living among the hills and seeing one 
set of faces, and one series of actions, from year’s end to year’s 
end; but I have undergone sharp discipline, which has taught me 
wisdom: and then, I have read more than you would fancy, Mr 
Lockwood. You could not open a book in this library that I have 
not looked into, and got something out of also: unless it be that 
range of Greek and Latin, and that of French; and those I know 
one from another: it is as much as you can expect of a poor man’s 
daughter. However, if I am to follow my story in true gossip’s 
fashion, I had better go on; and instead of leaping three years, 
I will be content to pass to the next summer — the summer of 
1778, that is, nearly twenty-three years ago.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

O N the morning of a fine June day, my first bonny little nurs¬ 
ling, and the last of the ancient Earnshaw stock, was born. 
We were busy with the hay in a far-away field, when the girl that 
usually brought our breakfasts, came running an hour too soon, 
across the meadow and up the lane, calling me as she ran. 

“Oh, such a grand bairn!” she panted out. “The finest lad 
that ever breathed! But the doctor says missis must go : he says 
she’s been in a consumption these many months. I heard him 

5 2 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


tell Mr Hindley: and now she has nothing to keep her, and she’ll 
be dead before winter. You must come home directly. You’re 
to nurse it, Nelly: to feed it with sugar and milk, and take care 
of it day and night. I wish I were you, because it will be all yours 
when there is no missis!” 

“But is she very ill?” I asked, flinging down my rake, and tying 
my bonnet. 

“I guess she is; yet she looks bravely,” replied the girl, “and 
she talks as if she thought of living to see it grow a man. She’s 
out of her head for joy, it’s such a beauty! If I were her, I’m 
certain I should not die: I should get better at the bare sight of 
it, in spite of Kenneth. I was fairly mad at him. Dame Archer 
brought the cherub down to master, in the house, and his face 
just began to light up, when the old croaker steps forward, and 
says he — ‘ Earnshaw, it’s a blessing your wife has been spared 
to leave you this son. When she came, I felt convinced we shouldn’t 
keep her long; and now, I must tell you, the winter will probably 
finish her. Don’t take on, and fret about it too much! it can’t 
be helped. And besides, you should have known better than to 
choose such a rush of a lass!’ ” 

“And what did the master answer?” I inquired. 

“I think he swore: but I didn’t mind him, I was straining to 
see the bairn,” and she began again to describe it rapturously. 
I, as zealous as herself, hurried eagerly home to admire, on my 
part; though I was very sad for Hindley’s sake. He had room in 
his heart only for two idols — his wife and himself: he doted on 
both, and adored one, and I couldn’t conceive how he would bear 
the loss. 

When we got to Wuthering Heights, there he stood at the front 
door; and, as I passed in, I asked, “How was the baby?” 

“Nearly ready to run about, Nell!” he replied, putting on a 
cheerful smile. 

“And the mistress?” I ventured to inquire; “the doctor says 
she’s”- 

“Damn the doctor!” he interrupted, reddening. “Frances is 
quite right; she’ll be perfectly well by this time next week. Are 
you going upstairs? will you tell her that I’ll come, if she’ll 
promise not to talk. I left her because she would not hold her 
tongue; and she must — tell her Mr Kenneth says she must be 
quiet.” 


53 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


I delivered this message to Mrs Earnshaw; she seemed in 
flighty spirits, and replied merrily — 

“I hardly spoke a word, Ellen, and there he has gone out twice, 
crying. Well, say I promise I won’t speak: but that does not bind 
me not to laugh at him!” 

Poor soul! Till within a week of her death that gay heart never 
failed her, and her husband persisted doggedly, nay, furiously, in 
affirming her health improved every day. When Kenneth warned 
him that his medicines were useless at that stage of the malady, 
and he needn’t put him to further expense by attending her, he 
retorted — 

“I know you need not — she’s well — she does not want any 
more attendance from you! She never was in a consumption. 
It was a fever; and it is gone: her pulse is as slow as mine now, 
and her cheek as cool.” 

He told his wife the same story, and she seemed to believe him; 
but one night, while leaning on his shoulder, in the act of saying 
she thought she should be able to get up to-morrow, a fit of cough¬ 
ing took her — a very slight one — he raised her in his arms; she 
put her two hands about his neck, her face changed, and she was 
dead. 

As the girl had anticipated, the child Hareton fell wholly into 
my hands. Mr Earnshaw, provided he saw him healthy and 
never heard him cry, was contented, as far as regarded him. For 
himself, he grew desperate: his sorrow was of that kind that will 
not lament. He neither wept nor prayed: he cursed and defied: 
execrated God and man, and gave himself up to reckless dissipa¬ 
tion. The servants could not bear his tyrannical and evil con¬ 
duct long: Joseph and I were the only two that would stay. I 
had not the heart to leave my charge; and besides, you know I 
had been his foster-sister, and excused his behaviour more readily 
than a stranger would. Joseph remained to hector over tenants 
and labourers; and because it was his vocation to be where he had 
plenty of wickedness to reprove. 

The master’s bad ways and bad companions formed a pretty 
example for Catherine and Heathcliff. His treatment of the 
latter was enough to make a fiend of a saint. And, truly, it ap¬ 
peared as if the lad were possessed of something diabolical at that 
period. He delighted to witness Hindley degrading himself past 
redemption; and became daily more notable for savage sullenness 

54 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and ferocity. I could not half tell what an infernal house we had. 
The curate dropped calling, and nobody decent came near us, at 
last, unless Edgar Linton’s visits to Miss Cathy might be an ex¬ 
ception. At fifteen she was the queen of the country side; she 
had no peer; and she did turn out a haughty, headstrong crea¬ 
ture! I own I did not like her, after her infancy was past; and 
I vexed her frequently by trying to bring down her arrogance: 
she never took an aversion to me, though. She had a wondrous 
constancy to old attachments: even Heathcliff kept his hold on 
her affections unalterably; and young Linton, with all his superi- 
ority, found it difficult to make an equally deep impression. He 
was my late master: that is his portrait over the fireplace. It 
used to hang on one side, and his wife’s on the other; but hers 
has been removed, or else you might see something of what she 
was. Can you make that out? 

Mrs Dean raised the candle, and I discerned a soft-featured 
face, exceedingly resembling the young lady at the Heights, but 
more pensive and amiable in expression. It formed a sweet pic¬ 
ture. The long light hair curled slightly on the temples; the 
eyes were large and serious; the figure almost too graceful. I did 
not marvel how Catherine Earnshaw could forget her first friend 
for such an individual. I marvelled much how he, with a mind 
to correspond with his person, could fancy my idea of Catherine 
Earnshaw. 

“A very agreeable portrait,” I observed to the housekeeper. 
“Is it like?” 

“Yes,” she answered; “but he looked better when he was ani¬ 
mated; that is his everyday countenance: he wanted spirit in 
general.” 

Catherine had kept up her acquaintance with the Lintons since 
her five weeks’ residence among them; and as she had no temptation 
to show her rough side in their company, and had the sense to be 
ashamed of being rude where she experienced such invariable 
courtesy, she imposed unwittingly on the old lady and gentleman, 
by her ingenious cordiality; gained the admiration of Isabella, 
and the heart and soul of her brother: acquisitions that flattered 
her from the first, for she was full of ambition, and led her to adopt 
a double character without exactly intending to deceive anyone. 
In the place where she heard Heathcliff termed a “vulgar young 
ruffian,” and “worse than a brute,” she took care not to act like 

55 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


him; but at home she had small inclination to practise politeness 
that would only be laughed at, and restrain an unruly nature when 
it would bring her neither credit nor praise. 

Mr Edgar seldom mustered courage to visit Wuthering Heights 
openly. He had a terror of Earnshaw’s reputation, and shrunk 
from encountering him; and yet he was always received with our 
best attempts at civility: the master himself avoided offending 
him, knowing why he came; and if he could not be gracious, kept 
out of the way. J rather think his appearance there was distaste¬ 
ful to Catherine: she was not artful, never played the coquette, 
and had evidently an objection to her two friends meeting at all; 
for when Heathcliff expressed contempt of Linton in his presence, 
she could not half coincide, as she did in his absence; and when 
Linton evinced disgust and antipathy to Heathcliff, she dared 
not treat his sentiments with indifference, as if depreciation of her 
playmate were of scarcely any consequence to her. I’ve had many 
a laugh at her perplexities and untold troubles, which she vainly 
strove to hide from my mockery. That sounds ill-natured: but 
she was so proud, it became really impossible to pity her distresses, 
till she should be chastened into more humility. She did bring 
herself, finally, to confess, and to confide in me: there was not a 
soul else that she might fashion into an adviser. 

Mr Hindley had gone from home one afternoon, and Heathcliff 
presumed to give himself a holiday on the strength of it. He 
had reached the age of sixteen then, I think, and without having 
bad features, or being deficient in intellect, he contrived to con¬ 
vey an impression of inward and outward repulsiveness that his 
present aspect retains no traces of. In the first place, he had by 
that time lost the benefit of his early education: continual hard 
work, begun soon and concluded late, had extinguished any curi¬ 
osity he once possessed in pursuit of knowledge, and any love for 
books or learning. His childhood’s sense of superiority, instilled 
into him by the favours of old Mr Earnshaw, was faded away. 
He struggled long to keep up an equality with Catherine in her 
studies, and yielded with poignant though silent regret: but he 
yielded completely; and there was no prevailing on him to take a 
step in the way of moving upward, when he found he must, neces¬ 
sarily, sink beneath his former level. Then personal appearance 
sympathised with mental deterioration: he acquired a slouching 
gait, and ignoble look; his naturally reserved disposition was 

56 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


exaggerated into an almost idiotic excess of unsociable moroseness; 
and he took a grim pleasure, apparently, in exciting the aversion 
rather than the esteem of his few acquaintance. 

Catherine and he were constant companions still at his seasons 
of respite from labour; but he had ceased to express his fondness 
for her in words, and recoiled with angry suspicion from her girl¬ 
ish caresses, as if conscious there could be no gratification in lav¬ 
ishing such marks of affection on him. On the before-named 
occasion he came into the house to announce his intention of doing 
nothing, while I was assisting Miss Cathy to arrange her dress: 
she had not reckoned on his taking it into his head to be idle; and 
imagining she would have the whole place to herself, she managed, 
by some means, to inform Mr Edgar of her brother’s absence, and 
was then preparing to receive him. 

“Cathy, are you busy, this afternoon?” asked Heathcliff. “Are 
you going anywhere?” 

“No, it is raining,” she answered. 

“Why have you that silk frock on, then?” he said. “Nobody 
coming here, I hope?” 

“Not that I know of,” stammered miss: “but you should be 
in the field now, Heathcliff. It is an hour past dinner time: I 
thought you were gone.” 

“Hindley does not often free us from his accursed presence,” 
observed the boy. “I’ll not work any more to-day: I’ll stay with 
you.” 

“Oh, but Joseph will tell,” she suggested; “you’d better go!” 

“Joseph is loading lime on the further side of Pennistow Crag; 
it will take him till dark, and he’ll never know.” 

So saying, he lounged to the fire, and sat down. Catherine 
reflected an instant, with knitted brows — she found it needful 
to smooth the way for an intrusion. “Isabella and Edgar Lin¬ 
ton talked of calling this afternoon,” she said, at the conclusion of 
a minute’s silence. “As it rains, I hardly expect them; but they 
may come, and if they do, you run the risk of being scolded for no 
good.” 

“Order Ellen to say you are engaged, Cathy,” he persisted; 
“don’t turn me out for those pitiful, silly friends of yours! I’m 
on the point, sometimes, of complaining that they — but I’ll 
not ”- 

“That they what ?” cried Catherine, gazing at him with a troubled 

57 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


countenance. “Oh, Nelly!” she added petulantly, jerking her 
head away from my hands, “you’ve combed my hair quite out of 
curl! That’s enough; let me alone. What are you on the point of 
complaining about, Heathcliff?” 

“Nothing — only look at the almanac on that wall;” he pointed 
to a framed sheet hanging near the window, and continued — 
“The crosses are for the evenings you have spent with the Lintons, 
the dots for those spent with me. Do you see? I’ve marked 
every day.” 

“Yes — very foolish: as if I took notice!” replied Catherine, 
in a peevish tone. “And where is the sense of that?” 

“To show that I do take notice,” said Heathcliff. 

“And should I always be sitting with you?” she demanded, 
growing more irritated. “What good do I get? What do you 
talk about? You might be dumb, or a baby, for anything you 
say to amuse me, or for anything you do, either! ” 

“You never told me before that I talked too little, or that you 
disliked my company, Cathy!” exclaimed Heathcliff, in much 
agitation. 

“It’s no company at all, when people know nothing and say 
nothing,” she muttered. 

Her companion rose up, but he hadn’t time to express his feel¬ 
ings further, for a horse’s feet were heard on the flags, and having 
knocked gently, young Linton entered, his face brilliant with de¬ 
light at the unexpected summons he had received. Doubtless 
Catherine marked the difference between her friends, as one came 
in and the other went out. The contrast resembled what you see 
in exchanging a bleak, hilly, coal country for a beautiful fertile 
valley; and his voice and greeting were as opposite as his aspect. 
He had a sweet, low manner of speaking, and pronounced his 
words as you do: that’s less gruff than we talk here, and softer. 

“I’m not come too soon, am I?” he said, casting a look at me: 
I had begun to wipe the plate, and tidy some drawers at the far 
end in the dresser. 

“No,” answered Catherine. “What are you doing there, 
Nelly?” 

“My work, miss,” I replied. (Mr Hindley had given me direc¬ 
tions to make a third party in any private visits Linton chose to 
pay.) 

She stepped behind me and whispered crossly, “Take yourself 

58 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and your dusters off; when company are in the house, servants 
don’t commence scouring and cleaning in the room where they 
are! ” 

“It's a good opportunity, now that master is away,” I answered 
aloud: “he hates me to be fidgeting over these things in his pres¬ 
ence. I’m sure Mr Edgar will excuse me.” 

“I hate you to be fidgeting in my presence,” exclaimed the 
young lady imperiously, not allowing her guest time to speak: 
she had failed to recover her equanimity since the little dispute 
with Heathcliff. 

“I’m sorry for it, Miss Catherine,” was my response; and I 
proceeded assiduously with my occupation. 

She, supposing Edgar could not see her, snatched the cloth 
from my hand, and pinched me, with a prolonged wrench, very 
spitefully on the arm. I’ve said I did not love her, and rather 
relished mortifying her vanity now and then: besides, she hurt 
me extremely; so I started up from my knees, and screamed out, 
“Oh, miss, that’s a nasty trick! You have no right to nip me, 
and I’m not going to bear it.” 

“I didn’t touch you, you lying creature!” cried she, her lingers 
tingling to repeat the act, and her ears red with rage. She never 
had power to conceal her passion, it always set her whole complex¬ 
ion in a blaze. 

“What’s that, then?” I retorted, showing a decided purple 
witness to refute her. 

She stamped her foot, wavered a moment, and then irresistibly 
impelled by the naughty spirit within her, slapped me on the 
cheek: a stinging blow that filled both eyes with water. 

“Catherine, love! Catherine!” interposed Linton, greatly 
shocked at the double fault of falsehood and violence which his 
idol had committed. 

“Leave the room, Ellen!” she repeated, trembling all over. 

Little Hareton, who followed me everywhere, and was sitting 
near me on the floor, at seeing my tears commenced crying him¬ 
self, and sobbed out complaints against “wicked aunt Cathy,” 
which drew her fury on to his unlucky head: she seized his shoul¬ 
ders, and shook him till the poor child waxed livid, and Edgar 
thoughtlessly laid hold of her hands to deliver him. In an instant 
one was wrung free, and the astonished young man felt it applied 
over his own ear in a way that could not be mistaken for jest. He 

59 


I 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 

drew back in consternation. I lifted Hareton in my arms, and 
walked off to the kitchen with him, leaving the door of communi¬ 
cation open, for I was curious to watch how they would settle their 
disagreement. The insulted visitor moved to the spot where he 
had laid his hat, pale and with a quivering lip. 

“ That’s right!” I said to myself. “ Take warning and begone! 
It’s a kindness to let you have a glimpse of her genuine disposi¬ 
tion.” 

“Where are you going?” demanded Catherine, advancing to 
the door. 

He swerved aside, and attempted to pass. 

“You must not go!” she exclaimed energetically. 

“I must and shall!” he replied in a subdued voice. 

“No,” she persisted, grasping the handle; “not yet, Edgar Lin¬ 
ton: sit down; you shall not leave me in that temper. I should 
be miserable all night, and I won’t be miserable for you! ” 

“Can I stay after you have struck me?” asked Linton. 

Catherine was mute. 

“You’ve made me afraid and ashamed of you,” he continued; 
“I’ll not come here again!” 

Her eyes began to glisten, and her lids to twinkle. 

“And you told a deliberate untruth!” he said. 

“I didn’t!” she cried, recovering her speech; “I did nothing 
deliberately. Well, go, if you please — get away! And now 
I’ll cry — I’ll cry myself sick ! ” 

She dropped down on her knees by a chair, and set to weeping 
in serious earnest. Edgar persevered in his resolution as far as 
the court; there he lingered. I resolved to encourage him. 

“Miss is dreadfully wayward, sir,” I called out. “As bad as 
any marred child: you’d better be riding home, or else she will 
be sick only to grieve us.” 

The soft thing looked askance through the window: he pos¬ 
sessed the power to depart, as much as a cat possesses the power 
to leave a mouse half killed, or a bird half eaten. Ah, I thought, 
there will be no saving him: he’s doomed, and flies to his fate! 
And so it was: he turned abruptly, hastened into the house again, 
shut the door behind him; and when I went in a while after to 
inform them that Earnshaw had come home rabid drunk, ready 
to pull the whole place about our ears (his ordinary frame of mind 
in that condition), I saw the quarrel had merely effected a closer 

6o 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


intimacy — had broken the outworks of youthful timidity, and 
enabled them to forsake the disguise of friendship, and confess 
themselves lovers. 

Intelligence of Mr Hindley’s arrival drove Linton speedily to 
his horse, and Catherine to her chamber. I went to hide little 
Hareton, and to take the shot out of the master’s fowling-piece, 
which he was fond of playing with in his insane excitement, to the 
hazard of the lives of any who provoked, or even attracted his 
notice too much; and I had hit upon the plan of removing it, 
that he might do less mischief if he did go the length of firing the 
gun. 


CHAPTER IX. 

H E entered, vociferating oaths dreadful to hear; and caught 
me in the act of stowing his son away in the kitchen cup¬ 
board. Hareton was impressed with a wholesome terror of en¬ 
countering either his wild beast’s fondness or his madman’s rage; 
for in one he ran a chance of being squeezed and kissed to death, 
and in the other of being flung into the fire, or dashed against the 
wall; and the poor thing remained perfectly quiet wherever I 
chose to put him. 

“There, I’ve found it out at last!” cried Hindley, pulling me 
back by the skin of my neck, like a dog. “By heaven and hell, 
you’ve sworn between you to murder that child! I know how it 
is, now, that he is always out of my way. But, with the help of 
Satan, I shall make you swallow the carving-knife, Nelly! You 
needn’t laugh; for I’ve just crammed Kenneth, head-downmost, 
in the Blackhorse marsh; and two is the same as one—rand I 
want to kill some of you: I shall have no rest till I do ! ” 

“But I don’t like the carving-knife, Mr Hindley,” I answered: 
“it has been cutting red herrings. I’d rather be shot, if you please.” 

“You’d rather be damned!” he said; “and so you shall. No 
law in England can hinder a man from keeping his house decent, 
and mine’s abominable! open your mouth.” 

He held the knife in his hand, and pushed its point between my 
teeth: but, for my part, I was never much afraid of his vagaries. 
I spat out, and affirmed it tasted detestably — I would not take 
it on any account. 


61 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Oh!” said he, releasing me, “I see that hideous little villain 
is not Hareton: I beg your pardon, Nell If it be, he deserves 
flaying alive for not running to welcome me, and for screaming 
as if I were a goblin. Unnatural cub, come hither! I’ll teach 
thee to impose on a good-hearted, deluded father. Now, don’t 
you think the lad would be handsomer cropped ? It makes a dog 
fiercer, and I love something fierce — get me a scissors — some¬ 
thing fierce and trim! Besides, it’s infernal affectation — devil¬ 
ish conceit it is, to cherish our ears — we’re asses enough without 
them. Hush, child, hush! Well then, it is my darling! wisht, 
dry thy eyes — there’s a joy; kiss me. What! it won’t? Kiss 
me, Hareton! Damn thee, kiss me! By God, as if I would rear 
such a monster! As sure as I’m living, I’ll break the brat’s neck.” 

Poor Hareton was squalling and kicking in his father’s arms 
with all his might, and redoubled his yells when he carried him 
upstairs and lifted him over the banister. I cried out that he 
would frighten the child into fits, and ran to rescue him. As I 
reached them, Hindley leant forward on the rails to listen to a 
noise below; almost forgetting what he had in his hands. “Who 
is that?” he asked, hearing someone approaching the stair’s 
foot. I leant forward also, for the purpose of signing to Heath- 
cliff, whose step I recognised, not to come further; and, at the 
instant when my eye quitted Hareton, he gave a sudden spring, 
delivered himself from the careless grasp that held him, and fell. 

There was scarcely time to experience a thrill of horror before 
we saw that the little wretch was safe. Heathcliff arrived under¬ 
neath just at the critical moment; by a natural impulse, he arrested 
his descent, and setting him on his feet, looked up to discover the 
author of the accident. A miser who has parted with a lucky 
lottery ticket for five shillings, and finds next day he has lost in 
the bargain five thousand pounds, could not show a blanker coun¬ 
tenance than he did on beholding the figure of Mr Earnshaw 
above. It expressed, plainer than words could do, the intense 
anguish at having made himself the instrument of thwarting his 
own revenge. Had it been dark, I daresay, he would have tried 
to remedy the mistake by smashing Hareton’s skull on the steps; 
but we witnessed his salvation; and I was presently below with 
my precious charge pressed to my heart. Hindley descended 
more leisurely, sobered and abashed. 

“It is your fault, Ellen,” he said; “you should have kept him 

62 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


out of sight: you should have taken him from me 1 Is he injured 
anywhere ? ” 

“Injured!” I cried angrily; “if he’s not killed, he’ll be an idiot! 
Oh! I wonder his mother does not rise from her grave to see how 
you use him. You’re worse than a heathen — treating your own 
flesh and blood in that manner! ” 

He attempted to touch the child, who, on finding himself with 
me, sobbed off his terror directly. At the first finger his father 
laid on him, however, he shrieked again louder than before, and 
struggled as if he would go into convulsions. 

“You shall not meddle with him!” I continued. “He hates 
you — they all hate you — that’s the truth! A happy family 
you have: and a pretty state you’ve come to! ” 

“I shall come to a prettier, yet, Nelly,” laughed the misguided 
man, recovering his hardness. “At present, convey yourself and 
him away. And, hark you, Heathcliff! clear you too, quite from 
my reach and hearing. I wouldn’t murder you to-night; unless, 
perhaps, I set the house on fire: but that’s as my fancy goes.” 

While saying this he took a pint bottle of brandy from the dresser 
and poured some into a tumbler. 

“Nay, don’t!” I entreated. “Mr Hindley, do take warning. 
Have mercy on this unfortunate boy, if you care nothing for your¬ 
self!” 

“Anyone will do better for him than I shall,” he answered. 

“Have mercy on your own soul l” I said, endeavouring to snatch 
the glass from his hand. 

“Not I! On the contrary, I shall have great pleasure in send¬ 
ing it to perdition to punish its Maker,” exclaimed the blasphemer. 
“Here’s to its hearty damnation!” 

He drank the spirits and impatiently bade us go; terminating 
his command with a sequel of horrid imprecations, too bad to 
repeat or remember. 

“It’s a pity he cannot kill himself with drink,” observed Heath- 
cliff, muttering an echo of curses back when the door was shut. 
“He’s doing his very utmost; but his constitution defies him. 
Mr Kenneth says he would wager his mare, that he’ll outlive any 
man on this side Gimmerton, and go to the grave a hoary sinner; 
unless some happy chance out of the common course befall him.” 

I went into the kitchen, and sat down to lull my little lamb to 
sleep. Heathcliff, as I thought, walked through to the barn. 

63 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


It turned out afterwards that he only got as far as the other side 
the settle, when he flung himself on a bench by the wall, removed 
from the fire, and remained silent. 

I was rocking Hareton on my knee, and humming a song that 
began — 

“ It was far in the night, and the bairnies grat, 

The mither beneath the mods heard that ” — 

when Miss Cathy, who had listened to the hubbub from her room, 
put her head in, and whispered — 

“Are you alone, Nelly?” 

“Yes, miss,” I replied. 

She entered and approached the hearth. I, supposing she was 
going to say something, looked up. The expression of her face 
seemed disturbed and anxious. Her lips were half asunder, as 
if she meant to speak, and she drew a breath; but it escaped in a 
sigh instead of a sentence. I resumed my song; not having for¬ 
gotten her recent behaviour. 

“Where’s Heathcliff?” she said, interrupting me. 

“About his work in the stable,” was my answer. 

He did not contradict me; perhaps he had fallen into a doze. 
There followed another long pause, during which I perceived a 
drop or two trickle from Catherine’s cheek to the flags. Is she 
sorry for her shameful conduct? I asked myself. That will be a 
novelty: but she may come to the point as she will — I shan’t 
help her! No, she felt small trouble regarding any subject, save 
her own concerns. 

“Oh, dear!” she cried at last. “I’m very unhappy!” 

“A pity,” observed I. “You’re hard to please: so many friends 
and so few cares, and can’t make yourself content!” 

“Nelly, will you keep a secret for me?” she pursued, kneeling 
down by me, and lifting her winsome eyes to my face with that 
sort of look which turns off bad temper, even when one has all 
the right in the world to indulge it. 

“Is it worth keeping?” I inquired, less sulkily. 

“Yes, and it worries me, and I must let it out! I want to know 
what I should do. To-day, Edgar Linton has asked me to marry 
him, and I’ve given him an answer. Now, before I tell you whether 
it was a consent or denial, you tell me which it ought to have been.” 

“Really, Miss Catherine, how can I know?” I replied. “To 

64 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


be sure, considering the exhibition you performed in his presence 
this afternoon, I might say it would be wise to refuse him: since 
he asked you after that, he must either be hopelessly stupid or a 
venturesome fool.” 

“If you talk so, I won’t tell you any more,” she returned peev¬ 
ishly, rising to her feet. “I accepted him, Nelly. Be quick, 
and say whether I was wrong!” 

“You accepted him! then what good is it discussing the mat¬ 
ter? You have pledged your word, and cannot retract.” 

“But, say whether I should have done so — do !” she exclaimed 
in an irritated tone; chafing her hands together, and frowning. 

“There are many things to be considered before that question 
can be answered properly,” I said sententiously. “First and 
foremost, do you love Mr Edgar?” 

“Who can help it? Of course I do,” she answered. 

Then I put her through the following catechism: for a girl of 
twenty-two it was not injudicious. 

“Why do you love him, Miss Cathy?” 

“Nonsense, I do — that’s sufficient.” 

“By no means; you must say why?” 

“Well, because he is handsome, and pleasant to be with.” 

“Bad!” was my commentary. 

“And because he is young and cheerful.” 

“Bad, still.” 

“And because he loves me.” 

“Indifferent, coming there.” 

“And he will be rich, and I shall like to be the greatest woman 
of the neighbourhood, and I shall be proud of having such a hus¬ 
band.” 

t 

“Worst of all. And now, say how you love him?” 

“As everybody loves — You’re silly, Nelly.” 

“Not at all — Answer.” 

“I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, 
and everything he touches, and every word he says. I love all 
his looks, and all his actions, and him entirely and altogether. 
There now!” 

“And why?” 

“Nay; you are making a jest of it; it is exceedingly ill-na¬ 
tured! It’s no jest to me!” said the young lady, scowling, and 
turning her face to the fire. 


65 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“I’m very far from jesting, Miss Catherine,” I replied. “You 
love Mr Edgar because he is handsome, and young, and cheerful, 
and rich, and loves you. The last, however, goes for nothing: 
you would love him without that, probably; and with it you 
wouldn’t, unless he possessed the four former attractions.” 

“No, to be sure not: I should only pity him — hate him, per¬ 
haps, if he were ugly, and a clown.” 

“But there are several other handsome, rich young men in the 
world: handsomer, possibly, and richer than he is. What should 
hinder you from loving them?” 

“If there be any, they are out of my way! I’ve seen none like 
Edgar.” 

“You may see some; and he won’t always be handsome, and 
young, and may not always be rich.” 

“He is now; and I have only to do with the present. I wish 
you would speak rationally.” 

“Well, that settles it: if you have only to do with the present, 
marry Mr Linton.” 

“I don’t want your permission for that — I shall marry him: 
and yet you have not told me whether I’m right.” 

“Perfectly right; if people be right to marry only for the pres¬ 
ent. And now, let us hear what you are unhappy about. Your 
brother will be pleased; the old lady and gentleman will not ob¬ 
ject, I think; you will escape from a disorderly, comfortless home 
into a wealthy, respectable one; and you love Edgar, and Edgar 
loves you. All seems smooth and easy: where is the obstacle?” 

“Herel and here!” replied Catherine, striking one hand on her 
forehead, and the other on her breast: “in whichever place the 
soul lives. In my soul and in my heart, I’m convinced I’m wrong! ” 

“That’s very strange! I cannot make it out.” 

“It’s my secret. But if you will not mock at me, I’ll explain it: 
I can’t do it distinctly: but I’ll give you a feeling of how I feel.” 

She seated herself by me again: her countenance grew sadder 
and graver, and her clasped hands trembled. 

“Nelly, do you never dream queer dreams?” she said, suddenly, 
after some minutes’ reflection. 

“Yes, now and then,” I answered. 

“And so do I. I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed 
with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through 
and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour 

' 66 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


of my mind. And this is one; I’m going to tell it — but take 
care not to smile at any part of it.” 

“Oh! don’t, Miss Catherine 1 ” I cried. “We’re dismal enough 
without conjuring up ghosts and visions to perplex us. Come, 
come, be merry and like yourself! Look at little Hareton! he's 
dreaming nothing dreary. How sweetly he smiles in his sleep!” 

“Yes; and how sweetly his father curses in his solitude! You 
remember him, I daresay, when he was just such another as that 
chubby thing: nearly as young and innocent. However, Nelly, 
I shall oblige you to listen: it’s not long; and I’ve no power to be 
merry to-night.” 

“I won’t hear it, I won’t hear it!” I repeated hastily. 

I was superstitious about dreams then, and am still; and Cath¬ 
erine had an unusual gloom in her aspect, that made me dread 
something from which I might shape a prophecy, and foresee a 
fearful catastrophe. She was vexed, but she did not proceed. 
Apparently taking up another subject, she recommenced in a short 
time. 

“If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable.” 

“Because you are not fit to go there,” I answered. “All sinners 
would be miserable in heaven.” 

“But it is not for that. I dreamt once that I was there.” 

“I tell you I won’t hearken to your dreams, Miss Catherine! 
I’ll go to bed,” I interrupted again. 

She laughed, and held me down; for I made a motion to leave 
my chair. 

“This is nothing,” cried she: “I was only going to say that 
heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with 
weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that 
they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuth- 
ering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy. That will do to 
explain my secret, as well as the other. I’ve no more business 
to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the 
wicked man in there had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn’t 
have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff 
now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because 
he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. 
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and 
Linton’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost 
from fire.” 


67 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Ere this speech ended, I became sensible of Heathcliff’s pres¬ 
ence. Having noticed a slight movement, I turned my head, and 
saw him rise from the bench, and steal out noiselessly. He had 
listened till he heard Catherine say it would degrade her to marry 
him, and then he stayed to hear no further. My companion, 
sitting on the ground, was prevented by the back of the settle from 
remarking his presence or departure; but I started, and bade her 
hush! 

“Why?” she asked, gazing nervously round. 

“Joseph is here,” I answered, catching opportunely the roll of 
his cart-wheels up the road; “and Heathcliff will come in with 
him. I’m not sure whether he were not at the door this moment.” 

“ Oh, he couldn’t overhear me at the door! ” said she. “ Give 
me Hareton, while you get the supper, and when it is ready ask 
me to sup with you. I want to cheat my uncomfortable conscience, 
and be convinced that Heathcliff has no notion of these things. 
He has not, has he? He does not know what being in love is?” 

“I see no reason that he should not know, as well as you,” I 
returned; “and if you are his choice, he will be the most unfor¬ 
tunate creature that ever was born! As soon as you become Mrs 
Linton, he loses friend, and love, and all! Have you considered 
how you’ll bear the separation, and how he’ll bear to be quite de¬ 
serted in the world? Because, Miss Catherine”- 

“He quite deserted! we separated!” she exclaimed, with an 
accent of indignation. “Who is to separate us, pray? They’ll 
meet the fate of Milo! Not as long as I live, Ellen: for no mortal 
creature. Every Linton on the face of the earth might melt into 
nothing, before I could consent to forsake Heathcliff. Oh, that’s 
not what I intend — that’s not what I mean! I shouldn’t be Mrs 
Linton were such a price demanded! He’ll be as much to me as 
he has been all his lifetime. Edgar must shake off his antipathy, 
and tolerate him, at least. He will, when he learns my true feel¬ 
ings towards him. Nelly, I see now, you think me a selfish 
wretch; but did it never strike you that if Heathcliff and I married, 
we should be beggars ? whereas, if I marry Linton, I can aid Heath¬ 
cliff to rise, and place him out of my brother’s power.” 

“With your husband’s money, Miss Catherine?” I asked. 
“You’ll find him not so pliable as you calculate upon: and, though 
I’m hardly a judge, I think that’s the worst motive you’ve given 
yet for being the wife of young Linton.” 

68 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“It is not,” retorted she; “it is the best! The others were the 
satisfaction of my whims: and for Edgar’s sake, too, to satisfy 
him. This is for the sake of one who comprehends in his person 
my feelings to Edgar and myself. I cannot express it; but surely 
you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an ex¬ 
istence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, 
if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world 
have been Heathcliff’s miseries, and I watched and felt each from 
the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else 
perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if 
all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would 
turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My 
love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change 
it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heath- 
cliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible 
delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, 
always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always 
a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our 
separation again: it is impracticable; and”- 

She paused, and hid her face in the folds of my gown; but I 
jerked it forcibly away. I was out of patience with her folly! 

“If I can make any sense of your nonsense, miss,” I said, “it 
only goes to convince me that you are ignorant of the duties you 
undertake in marrying; or else that you are a wicked, unprincipled 
girl. But trouble me with no more secrets: I’ll not promise to keep 
them.” 

“You’ll keep that?” she asked eagerly. 

“No, I’ll not promise,” I repeated. 

She was about to insist, when the entrance of Joseph finished our 
conversation; and Catherine removed her seat to a corner, and 
nursed Hareton, while I made the supper. After it was cooked, my 
fellow-servant and I began to quarrel who should carry some to Mr 
Hindley; and we didn’t settle it till all was nearly cold. Then we 
came to the agreement that we would let him ask, if he wanted any; 
for we feared particularly to go into his presence when he had been 
some time alone. 

“And how isn’t that nowt corned in fro’ th’ field, be this time? 
What is he about? girt idle seeght!” demanded the old man, look¬ 
ing round for Heathcliff. 

“I’ll call him,” I replied. “He’s in the barn, I’ve no doubt.” 

69 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


I went and called, but got no answer. On returning, I whispered 
to Catherine that he had heard a good part of what she said, I was 
sure; and told how I saw him quit the kitchen just as she complained 
of her brother’s conduct regarding him. She jumped up in a fine 
fright, flung Hareton on to the settle, and ran to seek for her friend 
herself; not taking leisure to consider why she was so flurried, or 
how her talk would have affected him. She was absent such a while 
that Joseph proposed we should wait no longer. He cunningly 
conjectured they were staying away in order to avoid hearing his 
protracted blessing. They were “ill eneugh for ony fahl manners,” 
he affirmed. And on their behalf he added that night a special 
prayer to the usual quarter of an hour’s supplication before meat, 
and would have tacked another to the end of the grace, had not his 
young mistress broken in upon him with a hurried command that 
he must run down the road, and wherever Heathcliff had rambled, 
find and make him re-enter directly I 

“I want to speak to him, and I must , before I go upstairs,” she 
said. “And the gate is open: he is somewhere out of hearing; for 
he would not reply, though I shouted at the top of the fold as loud 
as I could.” 

Joseph objected at first; she was too much in earnest, however, 
to suffer contradiction; and at last he placed his hat on his head, 
and walked grumbling forth. Meantime, Catherine paced up and 
down the floor, exclaiming — 

“I wonder where he is — I wonder where he can be ? What did 
I say, Nelly ? I’ve forgotten. Was he vexed at my bad humour this 
afternoon ? Dear! tell me what I’ve said to grieve him ? I do 
wish he’d come. I do wish he would 1” 

“What a noise for nothing!” I cried, though rather uneasy my¬ 
self. “ What a trifle scares you! It’s surely no great cause of alarm 
that Heathcliff should take a moonlight saunter on the moors, or 
even lie too sulky to speak to us in the hay-loft. I’ll engage he’s 
lurking there. See if I don’t ferret him out! ” 

I departed to renew my search; its result was disappointment, 
and Joseph’s quest ended in the same. 

“Yon lad gets war un war!” observed he on re-entering. “He’s 
left th’ yate at t’ full swing, and miss’s pony has trodden dahn two 
rigs o’ corn, and plottered through, raight o’er into t’ meadow! 
Hahsomdiver, t’ maister ’ull play t’ devil to-morn, and he’ll do week 
He’s patience itsseln wi’ sich careless, offald craters — patience 

70 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


itsseln he is! Bud he’ll not be soa alius — yah’s see, all on ye! 
Yah mumn’t drive him out of his heead for nowt 1” 

“Have you found Heathcliff, you ass?” interrupted Catherine. 
“Have you been looking for him, as I ordered?” 

“I sud more likker look for th’ horse,” he replied. “It ’ud be to 
more sense. Bud, I can look for norther horse nur man of a neeght 
loike this — as black as t’ chimbley! und Heathcliff’s noan t’ chap 
to coom at my whistle—happen he’ll be less hard o’ hearing wi’ ye!” 

It was a very dark evening for summer: the clouds appeared 
inclined to thunder, and I said we had better all sit down; the ap¬ 
proaching rain would be certain to bring him home without further 
trouble. However, Catherine would not be persuaded into tran¬ 
quillity. She kept wandering to and fro, from the gate to the door, 
in a state of agitation which permitted no repose; and at length took 
up a permanent situation on one side of the wall, near the road: 
where, heedless of my expostulations and the growling thunder, and 
the great drops that began to plash around her, she remained, calling 
at intervals, and then listening, and then crying outright. She beat 
Hareton, or any child, at a good passionate fit of crying. 

About midnight, while we still sat up, the storm came rattling over 
the Heights in full fury. There was a violent wind, as well as 
thunder, and either one or the other split a tree off at the corner of 
the building: a huge bough fell across the roof, and knocked down 
a portion of the east chimney-stack, sending a clatter of stones and 
soot into the kitchen fire. We thought a bolt had fallen in the mid¬ 
dle of us; and Joseph swung on to his knees beseeching the Lord 
to remember the patriarchs Noah and Lot, and, as in former times, 
spare the righteous, though He smote the ungodly. I felt some 
sentiment that it must be a judgment on us also. The Jonah, in 
my mind, was Mr Earnshaw; and I shook the handle of his den that 
I might ascertain if he were yet living. He replied audibly enough, 
in a fashion which made my companion vociferate, more clamor¬ 
ously than before, that a wide distinction might be drawn between 
saints like himself and sinners like his master. But the uproar 
passed away in twenty minutes, leaving us all unharmed; except¬ 
ing Cathy, who got thoroughly drenched for her obstinacy in refus¬ 
ing to take shelter, and standing bonnetless and shawl-less to catch 
as much water as she could with her hair and clothes. She came 
in and lay down on the settle, all soaked as she was, turning her face 
to the back, and putting her hands before it. 

7 1 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Well, miss!” I exclaimed, touching her shoulder; “you are 
not bent on getting your death, are you? Do you know what 
o’clock it is ? Half-past twelve. • Come, come to bed! there’s no 
use waiting longer on that foolish boy: he’ll be gone to Gimmerton, 
and he’ll stay there now. He guesses we shouldn’t wait for him till 
this late hour: at least, he guesses that only Mr Hindley would be 
up; and he’d rather avoid having the door opened by the master.” 

“Nay, nay, he’s noan at Gimmerton,” said Joseph. “I’s niver 
wonder but he’s at t’ bothom of a bog-hoile. This visitation worn’t 
for nowt, and I wod hev ye to look out, miss — yah muh be t’ next. 
Thank Hivin for all! All warks togither for gooid to them as is 
chozzen, and piked out fro’ th’ rubbidge ! Yah knaw whet t’ Scrip¬ 
ture ses.” And he began quoting several texts, referring us to chap¬ 
ters and verses where we might find them. 

I, having vainly begged the wilful girl to rise and remove her wet 
things, left him preaching and her shivering, and betook myself to 
bed with little Hareton, who slept as fast as if everyone had been 
sleeping round him. I heard Joseph read on a while afterwards; 
then I distinguished his slow step on the ladder, and then I dropped 
asleep. 

Coming down somewhat later than usual, I saw, by the sunbeams 
piercing the chinks of the shutters, Miss Catherine still seated near 
the fire-place. The house door was ajar, too; light entered from 
its unclosed windows; Hindley had come out, and stood on the 
kitchen hearth, haggard and drowsy. 

“What ails you, Cathy?” he was saying when I entered: “you 
look as dismal as a drowned whelp. Why are you so damp and pale, 
child ?” 

“I’ve been wet,” she answered reluctantly, “and I’m cold, that’s 

all.” 

“Oh, she is naughty!” I cried, perceiving the master to be tol¬ 
erably sober. “She got steeped in the shower of yesterday evening, 
and there she has sat the night through, and I couldn’t prevail on 
her to stir.” 

Mr Earnshaw stared at us in surprise. “The night through,” 
he repeated. “What kept her up? not fear of the thunder, surely? 
That was over hours since.” 

Neither of us wished to mention Heathcliff’s absence, as long as 
we could conceal it; so I replied, I didn’t know how she took it into 
her head to sit up; and she said nothing. The morning was fresh 

7 2 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and cool; I threw back the lattice, and presently the room filled 
with sweet scents from the garden; but Catherine called peevishly 
to me, “Ellen, shut the window. I’m starving!” And her teeth 
chattered as she shrunk closer to the almost extinguished embers. 

“She’s ill,” said Hindley, taking her wrist; “I suppose that’s the 
reason she would not go to bed. Damn it! I don’t want to be 
troubled with more sickness here. What took you into the rain!” 

“Running after t’ lads, as usuald !” croaked Joseph, catching an 
opportunity, from our hesitation, to thrust in his evil tongue. “If 
I war yah, maister, I’d just slam t’ boards i’ their faces all on ’em, 
gentle and simple ! Never a day ut yah’re off, but yon cat o’ Linton 
comes sneaking hither; and Miss Nelly, shoo’s a fine lass! shoo sits 
watching for ye i’t’ kitchen; and as yah’re in at one door he’s out 
at t’other; and, then, wer grand lady goes a coorting of her side! 
It’s bonny behaviour, lurking amang t’ fields, after twelve o’ t’ night, 
wi’ that fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think Pm 
blind; but I’m noan: nowt ut t’ soart! — I seed young Linton boath 
coming and going, and I seed yah” (directing his discourse to me), 
“yah gooid fur nowt, slattenly witch ! nip up and bolt into th’ house, 
t’ minute yah heard t’ maister’s horse fit clatter up t’ road.” 

“Silence, eavesdropper!” cried Catherine; “none of your inso¬ 
lence before me ! Edgar Linton came yesterday by chance, Hind- 
ley; and it was / who told him to be off: because I knew you would 
not like to have met him as you were.” 

“You lie, Cathy, no doubt,” answered her brother, “and you are 
a confounded simpleton ! But never mind Linton at present: tell 
me, were you not with Heathcliff last night ? Speak the truth, now. 
You need not be afraid of harming him: though I hate him as much 
as ever, he did me a good turn a short time since, that will make my 
conscience tender of breaking his neck. To prevent it, I shall send 
him about his business, this very morning; and after he’s gone, I’d 
advise you to all look sharp: I shall only have the more humour for 
you.” 

“I never saw Heathcliff last night,” answered Catherine, begin¬ 
ning to sob bitterly: “and if you do turn him out of doors, I’ll go 
with him. But, perhaps, you’ll never have an opportunity: per¬ 
haps he’s gone.” Here she burst into uncontrollable grief, and the 
remainder of her words were inarticulate. 

Hindley lavished on her a torrent of scornful abuse, and bade her 
get to her room immediately, or she shouldn’t cry for nothing! 

73 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


I obliged her to obey; and I shall never forget what a scene she acted 
when we reached her chamber: it terrified me. I thought she was 
going mad, and I begged Joseph to run for the doctor. It proved 
the commencement of delirium: Mr Kenneth, as soon as he saw 
her, pronounced her dangerously ill; she had a fever. He bled 
her, and he told me to let her live on whey and water-gruel, and take 
care she did not throw herself downstairs or out of the window; 
and then he left: for he had enough to do in the parish, where 
two or three miles was the ordinary distance between cottage and 
cottage. 

Though I cannot say I made a gentle nurse, and Joseph and the 
master were no better; and though our patient was as wearisome 
and headstrong as a patient could be, she weathered it through. 
Old Mrs Linton paid us several visits, to be sure, and set things to 
rights, and scolded and ordered us all; and when Catherine was 
convalescent, she insisted on conveying her to Thrushcross Grange: 
for which deliverance we were very grateful. But the poor dame 
had reason to repent of her kindness: she and her husband both 
took the fever, and died within a few days of each other. 

Our young lady returned to us, saucier and more passionate, and 
haughtier than ever. Heathcliff had never been heard of since the 
evening of the thunder-storm; and one day I had the misfortune, 
when she had provoked me exceedingly, to lay the blame of his dis¬ 
appearance on her: where indeed it belonged, as she well knew. 
From that period, for several months, she ceased to hold any com¬ 
munication with me, save in the relation of a mere servant. Joseph 
fell under a ban also: he would speak his mind, and lecture her all 
the same as if she were a little girl; and she esteemed herself a 
woman, and our mistress, and thought that her recent illness gave 
her a claim to be treated with consideration. Then the doctor had 
said that she would not bear crossing much; she ought to have her 
own way; and it was nothing less than murder in her eyes for any¬ 
one to presume to stand up and contradict her. From Mr Earn- 
shaw and his companions she kept aloof; and tutored by Kenneth, 
and serious threats of a fit that often attended her rages, her brother 
allowed her whatever she pleased to demand, and generally avoided 
aggravating her fiery temper. He was rather too indulgent in hu¬ 
mouring her caprices; not from affection, but from pride: he wished 
earnestly to see her bring honour to the family by an alliance with 
the Lintons, and as long as she let him alone she might trample on 

74 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


us like slaves, for aught he cared! Edgar Linton, as multitudes 
have been before and will be after him, was infatuated; and be¬ 
lieved himself the happiest man alive on the day he led her to Gim- 
merton Chapel, three years subsequent to his father’s death. 

Much against my inclination, I was persuaded to leave Wuthering 
Heights and accompany her here. Little Hareton was nearly five 
years old, and I had just begun to teach him his letters. We made 
a sad parting; but Catherine’s tears were more powerful than ours. 
When I refused to go, and when she found her entreaties did not 
move me, she went lamenting to her husband and brother. The 
former offered me munificent wages; the latter ordered me to pack 
up: he wanted no women in the house, he said, now that there was 
no mistress; and as to Hareton, the curate should take him in hand, 
by-and-by. And so I had but one choice left: to do as I was ordered. 
I told the master he got rid of all decent people only to run to ruin 
a little faster; I kissed Hareton, said good-bye; and since then he 
has been a stranger: and it’s very queer to think it, but I’ve no doubt 
he has completely forgotten all about Ellen Dean, and that he was 
ever more than all the world to her, and she to him! 


At this point of the housekeeper’s story, she chanced to glance 
towards the timepiece over the chimney; and was in amazement 
on seeing the minute-hand measure half-past one. She would not 
hear of staying a second longer: in truth, I felt rather disposed to 
defer the sequel of her narrative, myself. And now that she is van¬ 
ished to her rest, and I have meditated for another hour or two, I 
shall summon courage to go, also, in spite of aching laziness of head 
and limbs. 


CHAPTER X. 

A CHARMING introduction to a hermit’s life! Four weeks’ 
torture, tossing, and sickness! Oh! these bleak winds and 
bitter northern skies, and impassable roads, and dilatory country 
surgeons ! And, oh, this dearth of the human physiognomy ! and, 
worse than all, the terrible intimation of Kenneth that I need not 
expect to be out of doors till spring! 

Mr Heathcliff has just honoured me with a call. About seven days 
ago he sent me a brace of grouse — the last of the season. Scoun- 

75 




WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


drel! He is not altogether guiltless in this illness of mine; and that 
I had a great mind to tell him. But, alas! how could I offend a 
man who was charitable enough to sit at my bedside a good hour, 
and talk on some other subject than pills and draughts, blisters and 
leeches? This is quite an easy interval. I am too weak to read; 
yet I feel as if I could enjoy something interesting. Why not have 
up Mrs Dean to finish her tale? I can recollect its chief incidents 
as far as she had gone. Yes: I remember her hero had run off, and 
never been heard of for three years; and the heroine was married. 
I’ll ring: she’ll be delighted to find me capable of talking cheerfully. 

Mrs Dean came. 

“It wants twenty minutes, sir, to taking the medicine,” she com¬ 
menced. 

“Away, away with it!” I replied; “I desire to have”- 

“The doctor says you must drop the powders.” 

“With all my heart! Don’t interrupt me. Come and take your 
seat here. Keep your fingers from that bitter phalanx of vials. 
Draw your knitting out of your pocket — that will do — now con¬ 
tinue the history of Mr Heathcliff, from where you left off, to the 
present day. Did he finish his education on the Continent, and 
come back a gentleman ? or did he get a sizar’s place at college, or 
escape to America, and earn honours by drawing blood from his 
foster-country? or make a fortune more promptly on the English 
highways?” 

“He may have done a little in all these vocations, Mr Lockwood; 
but I couldn’t give my word for any. I stated before that I didn’t 
know how he gained his money; neither am I aware of the means 
he took to raise his mind from the savage ignorance into which it was 
sunk: but, with your leave, I’ll proceed in my own fashion, if you 
think it will amuse and not weary you. Are you feeling better this 
morning?” 

“Much.” 

“That’s good news.”—I got Miss Catherine and myself to Thrush- 
cross Grange; and, to my agreeable disappointment, she behaved 
infinitely better than I dared to expect. She seemed almost over- 
fond of Mr Linton; and even to his sister she showed plenty of 
affection. They were both very attentive to her comfort, certainly. 
It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honey¬ 
suckles embracing the thorn. There were no mutual concessions: 
one stood erect, and the others yielded: and who can be ill-natured 

76 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and bad-tempered when they encounter neither opposition nor 
indifference? I observed that Mr Edgar had a deep-rooted fear 
of ruffling her humour. He concealed it from her; but if ever he 
heard me answer sharply, or saw any other servant grow cloudy at 
some imperious order of hers, he would show his trouble by a frown 
of displeasure that never darkened on his own account. He many 
a time spoke sternly to me about my pertness; and averred that the 
stab of a knife could not inflict a worse pang than he suffered at 
seeing his lady vexed. Not to grieve a kind master, I learned to be 
less touchy; and, for the space of half a year, the gunpowder lay 
as harmless as sand, because no fire came near to explode it. Cath¬ 
erine had seasons of gloom and silence now and then: they were 
respected with sympathising silence by her husband, who ascribed 
them to an alteration in her constitution, produced by her perilous 
illness; as she was never subject to depression of spirits before. 
The return of sunshine was welcomed by answering sunshine from 
him. I believe I may assert that they were really in possession of 
deep and growing happiness. 

It ended. Well, we must be for ourselves in the long run; the 
mild and generous are only more justly selfish than the domineering; 
and it ended when circumstances caused each to feel that the one’s 
interest was not the chief consideration in the other’s thoughts. 
On a mellow evening in September, I was coming from the garden 
with a heavy basket of apples which I had been gathering. It had 
got dusk, and the moon looked over the high wall of the court, caus¬ 
ing undefined shadows to lurk in the corners of the numerous pro¬ 
jecting portions of the building. I set my burden on the house steps 
by the kitchen door, and lingered to rest, and drew in a few more 
breaths of the soft, sweet air; my eyes were on the moon, and my 
back to the entrance, when I heard a voice behind me say — 

“Nelly, is that you?” 

It was a deep voice, and foreign in tone; yet there was something 
in the manner of pronouncing my name which made it sound famil¬ 
iar. I turned about to discover who spoke, fearfully; for the doors 
were shut, and I had seen nobody on approaching the steps. Some¬ 
thing stirred in the porch; and, moving nearer, I distinguished a 
tall man dressed in dark clothes, with dark face and hair. He leant 
against the side, and held his fingers on the latch as if intending to 
open for himself. “Who can it be?” I thought. “MrEarnshaw? 
Oh, no ! The voice has no resemblance to his.” 

77 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“I have waited here an hour,” he resumed, while I continued 
staring; “and the whole of that time all round has been as still as 
death. I dared not enter. You do not know me? Look, I’m 
not a stranger!” 

A ray fell on his features; the cheeks were sallow, and half cov¬ 
ered with black whiskers; the brows lowering, the eyes deep set 
and singular. I remembered the eyes. 

“What!” I cried, uncertain whether to regard him as a worldly 
visitor, and I raised my hands in amazement. “What! you come 
back ? Is it really you ? Is it ? ” 

“Yes, Heathcliff,” he replied, glancing from me up to the win¬ 
dows, which reflected a score of glittering moons, but showed no 
lights from within. “Are they at home? where is she? Nelly, 
you are not glad ! you needn’t be so disturbed. Is she here ? Speak! 
I want to have one word with her — your mistress. Go, and say 
some person from Gimmerton desires to see her.” 

“How will she take it?” I exclaimed. “What will she do? 
The surprise bewilders me — it will put her out of her head ! And 
you are Heathcliff! But altered ! Nay, there’s no comprehending 
it. Have you been for a soldier ? ” 

“Go and carry my message,” he interrupted impatiently. “I’m 
in hell till you do!” 

He lifted the latch, and I entered; but when I got to the parlour 
where Mr and Mrs Linton were, I could not persuade myself to 
proceed. At length, I resolved on making an excuse to ask if they 
would have the candles lighted, and I opened the door. 

They sat together in a window whose lattice lay back against the 
wall, and displayed, beyond the garden trees and the wild green 
park, the valley of Gimmerton, with a long line of mist winding 
nearly to its top (for very soon after you pass the chapel, as you may 
have noticed, the sough that runs from the marshes joins a beck 
which follows the bend of the glen). Wuthering Heights rose above 
this silvery vapour; but our old house was invisible; it rather dips 
down on the other side. Both the room and its occupants, and the 
scene they gazed on, looked wondrously peaceful. I shrank re¬ 
luctantly from performing my errand; and was actually going away 
leaving it unsaid, after having put my question about the candles, 
when a sense of my folly compelled me to return, and mutter — “A 
person from Gimmerton wishes to see you, ma’am.” 

“What does he want?” asked Mrs Linton. 

78 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“I did not question him,” I answered. 

“Well, close the curtains, Nelly,” she said; “and bring up tea. 
I’ll be back again directly.” 

She quitted the apartment; Mr Edgar inquired, carelessly, who it 
was. 

“Someone mistress does not expect,” I replied. “That Heath- 
cliff — you recollect him, sir,—who used to live at Mr Earnshaw’s.” 

“What! the gipsy — the ploughboy?” he cried. “Why did 
you not say so to Catherine?” 

“Hush! you must not call him by those names, master,” I said. 
“She’d be sadly grieved to hear you. She was nearly heartbroken 
when he ran off. I guess his return will make a jubilee to her.” 

Mr Linton walked to a window on the other side of the room that 
overlooked the court. He unfastened it and leant out. I suppose 
they were below, for he exclaimed quickly — “Don’t stand there, 
love! Bring the person in, if it be anyone particular.” Ere 
long I heard the click of the latch, and Catherine flew upstairs, 
breathless and wild; too excited to show gladness: indeed, by her 
face, you would rather have surmised an awful calamity. 

“Oh, Edgar, Edgar!” she panted, flinging her arms round his 
neck. “Oh, Edgar, darling! Heathcliff’s come back — he is!” 
And she tightened her embrace to a squeeze. 

“Well, well,” cried her husband crossly, “don’t strangle me for 
that! He never struck me as such a marvellous treasure. There 
is no need to be frantic! ” 

“I know you didn’t like him,” she answered, repressing a little 
the intensity of her delight. “Yet, for my sake, you must be friends 
now. Shall I tell him to come up ? ” 

“Here?” he said, “into the parlour?” 

“Where else?” she asked. 

He looked vexed, and suggested the kitchen as a more suitable 
place for him. Mrs. Linton eyed him with a droll expression —half 
angry, half laughing at his fastidiousness. 

. “No,” she added after a while; “I cannot sit in the kitchen. Set 
two tables here, Ellen: one for your master and Miss Isabella, being 
gentry; the other for Heathcliff and myself, being of the lower 
orders. Will that please you, dear ? Or must I have a fire lighted 
elsewhere? If so, give directions. I’ll run down and secure my 
guest. I’m afraid the joy is too great to be real!” 

She was about to dart off again; but Edgar arrested her. 

79 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“ You bid him step up,” he said, addressing me; “and, Catherine, 
try to be glad, without being absurd ! the whole household need not 
witness the sight of your welcoming a runaway servant as a brother.” 

I descended and found Heathcliff waiting under the porch, evi¬ 
dently anticipating an invitation to enter. He followed my guid¬ 
ance without waste of words, and I ushered him into the presence 
of the master and mistress, whose flushed cheeks betrayed signs of 
warm talking. But the lady’s glowed with another feeling when her 
friend appeared at the door: she sprang forward, took both his 
hands, and led him to Linton; and then she seized Linton’s re¬ 
luctant fingers and crushed them into his. Now fully revealed by 
the fire and candlelight, I was amazed, more than ever, to behold 
the transformation of Heathcliff. He had grown a tall, athletic, 
well-formed man; beside whom, my master seemed quite slender 
and youth-like. His upright carriage suggested the idea of his hav¬ 
ing been in the army. His countenance was much older in expres¬ 
sion and decision of feature than Mr Linton’s; it looked intelligent, 
and retained no marks of former degradation. A half-civilised 
ferocity lurked yet in the depressed brows and eyes full of black 
fire, but it was subdued; and his manner was even dignified: quite 
divested of roughness, though too stern for grace. My master’s 
surprise equalled or exceeded mine: he remained for a minute at 
a loss how to address the ploughboy, as he had called him. Heath¬ 
cliff dropped his slight hand, and stood looking at him coolly till 
he chose to speak. 

“Sit down, sir,” he said, at length. “Mrs Linton, recalling old 
times, would have me give you a cordial reception; and, of course, 
I am gratified when anything occurs to please her.” 

“And I also,” answered Heathcliff, “especially if it be anything 
in which I have a part. I shall stay an hour or two willingly.” 

He took a seat oposite Catherine, who kept her gaze fixed on him 
as if she feared he would vanish were she to remove it. He did not 
raise his to her often: a quick glance now and then sufficed; but 
it flashed back, each time more confidently, the undisguised delight 
he drank from hers. They were too much absorbed in their mu¬ 
tual joy to suffer embarrassment. Not so Mr Edgar: he grew pale 
with pure annoyance: a feeling that reached its climax when his 
lady rose, and stepping across the rug, seized Heathcliff’s hands 
again, and laughed like one beside herself. 

“I shall think it a dream to-morrow 1” she cried. “I shall not 

8o 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


be able to believe that I have seen, and touched, and spoken to you 
once more. And yet, cruel Heathcliff! you don’t deserve this wel¬ 
come. To be absent and silent for three years, and never to think 
of me 1” 

“A little more than you have thought of me,” he murmured. “I 
heard of your marriage, Cathy, not long since; and, while waiting 
in the yard below, I meditated this plan: — just to have one glimpse 
of your face, a stare of surprise, perhaps, and pretended pleasure; 
afterwards settle my score with Hindley; and then prevent the law 
by doing execution on myself. Your welcome has put these ideas 
out of my mind; but beware of meeting me with another aspect 
next time! Nay, you’ll not drive me off again. You were really 
sorry for me, were you? Well, there was cause. I’ve fought 
through a bitter life since I last heard your voice; and you must 
forgive me, for I struggled only for you 1” 

“Catherine, unless we are to have cold tea, please to come to the 
table,” interrupted Linton, striving to preserve his ordinary tone, 
and a due measure of politeness. “Mr Heathcliff will have a long 
walk, wherever he may lodge to-night; and I’m thirsty.” 

She took her post before the urn; and Miss Isabella came, sum¬ 
moned by the bell; then, having handed their chairs forward, I 
left the room. The meal hardly endured ten minutes. Catherine’s 
cup was never filled: she could neither eat nor drink. Edgar had 
made a slop in his saucer, and scarcely swallowed a mouthful. 
Their guest did not protract his stay that evening above an hour 
longer. I asked, as he departed, if he went to Gimmerton? 

“No, to Wuthering Heights,” he answered: “Mr Earnshaw 
invited me, when I called this morning.” 

Mr Earnshaw invited him! and he called on Mr Earnshaw! I 
pondered this sentence painfully, after he was gone. Is he turning 
out a bit of a hypocrite, and coming into the country to work mis¬ 
chief under a cloak ? I mused: I had a presentiment in the bottom 
of my heart that he had better have remained away. 

About the middle of the night, I was wakened from my first nap 
by Mrs Linton gliding into my chamber, taking a seat on my bed¬ 
side, and pulling me by the hair to rouse me. 

“I cannot rest, Ellen,” she said, by way of apology. “And I 
want some living creature to keep me company in my happiness! 
Edgar is sulky, because I’m glad of a thing that does not interest 
him: he refuses to open his mouth, except to utter pettish, silly 

81 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


speeches; and he affirmed I was cruel and selfish for wishing to 
talk when he was so sick and sleepy. He always contrives to be 
sick at the least cross! I gave a few sentences of commendation to 
Heathcliff, and he, either for a headache or a pang of envy, began 
to cry: so I got up and left him.” 

“What use is it praising Heathcliff to him?” I answered. “As 
lads they had an aversion to each other, and Heathcliff would hate 
just as much to hear him praised: it’s human nature. Let Mr 
Linton alone about him, unless you would like an open quarrel be¬ 
tween them.” 

“But does it not show great weakness?” pursued she. “I’m 
not envious: I never feel hurt at the brightness of Isabella’s yellow 
hair and the whiteness of her skin, at her dainty elegance, and the 
fondness all the family exhibit for her. Even you, Nelly, if we have 
a dispute sometimes, you back Isabella at once; and I yield like a 
foolish mother: I call her a darling, and flatter her into a good tem¬ 
per. It pleases her brother to see us cordial, and that pleases me. 
But they are very much alike: they are spoiled children, and fancy 
the world was made for their accommodation; and though I hu¬ 
mour both, I think a smart chastisement might improve them, all 
the same.” 

“You’re mistaken, Mrs Linton,” said I. “They humour you: 
I know what there would be to do if they did not. You can well 
afford to indulge their passing whims as long as their business is to 
anticipate all your desires. You may, however, fall out, at last, 
over something of equal consequence to both sides; and then those 
you term weak are very capable of being as obstinate as you.” 

“And then we shall fight to the death, shan’t we, Nelly?” she 
returned, laughing. “No! I tell you, I have such faith in Lin¬ 
ton’s love, that I believe I might kill him, and he wouldn’t wish to 
retaliate.” 

I advised her to value him the more for his affection. 

“I do:” she answered, “but he needn’t resort to whining for 
trifles. It is childish; and, instead of melting into tears because I 
said that Heathcliff was now worthy of anyone’s regard, and it 
would honour the first gentleman in the country to be his friend, he 
ought to have said it for me, and been delighted from sympathy. 
He must get accustomed to him, and he may as well like him: con¬ 
sidering how Heathcliff has reason to object to him, I’m sure he 
behaved excellently!” 


82 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“What do you think of his going to Wuthering Heights?” I 
inquired. “He is reformed in every respect, apparently: quite a 
Christian: offering the right hand of fellowship to his enemies all 
around! ” 

“He explained it,” she replied. “I wonder as much as you. He 
said he called to gather information concerning me from you, sup¬ 
posing you resided there still; and Joseph told Hindley, who came 
out and fell to questioning him of what he had been doing, and how 
he had been living; and finally, desired him to walk in. There 
were some persons sitting at cards; Heathcliff joined them; my 
brother lost some money to him, and, finding him plentifully sup¬ 
plied, he requested that he would come again in the evening: to 
which he consented. Hindley is too reckless to select his acquaint¬ 
ance prudently: he doesn’t trouble himself to reflect on the causes 
he might have for mistrusting one whom he has basely injured. 
But Heathcliff affirms his principal reason for resuming a connection 
with his ancient persecutor is a wish to install himself in quarters 
at walking distance from the Grange, and an attachment to the 
house where we lived together; and likewise a hope that I shall 
have more opportunities of seeing him there than I could have if 
he settled in Gimmerton. He means to offer liberal payment for 
permission to lodge at the Heights; and doubtless my brother’s 
covetousness will prompt him to accept the terms: he was always 
greedy; though what he grasps with one hand he flings away with 
the other.” 

“It’s a nice place for a young man to fix his dwelling in!” said I. 
“Have you no fear of the consequences, Mrs Linton?” 

“None for my friend,” she replied: “his strong head will keep 
him from danger; a little for Hindley: but he can’t be made morally 
worse than he is; and I stand between him and bodily harm. The 
event of this evening has reconciled me to God and humanity! I 
had risen in angry rebellion against Providence. Oh, I’ve endured 
very, very bitter misery, Nelly! If that creature knew how bitter, 
he’d be ashamed to cloud its removal with idle petulance. It was 
kindness for him which induced me to bear it alone: had I expressed 
the agony I frequently felt, he would have been taught to long for 
its alleviation as ardently as I. However, it’s over, and I’ll take no 
revenge on his folly; I can afford to suffer anything hereafter! 
Should the meanest thing alive slap me on the cheek, I’d not only 
turn the other, but, I’d ask pardon for provoking it; and, as a proof, 

83 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


I’ll go make my peace with Edgar instantly. Good-night! I’m 
an angel!” 

In this self-complacent conviction she departed; and the success 
of her fulfilled resolution was obvious on the morrow: Mr Linton 
had not only abjured his peevishness (though his spirits seemed still 
subdued by Catherine’s exuberance of vivacity), but he ventured 
no objection to her taking Isabella with her to Wuthering Heights 
in the afternoon; and she rewarded him with such a summer of 
sweetness and affection in return, as made the house a paradise for 
several days; both master and servants profiting from the perpetual 
sunshine. 

Heathcliff — Mr Heathcliff I should say in future — used the 
liberty of visiting at Thrushcross Grange cautiously, at first: he 
seemed estimating how far its owner would bear his intrusion. 
Catherine, also, deemed it judicious to moderate her expressions 
of pleasure in receiving him; and he gradually established his right 
to be expected. He retained a great deal of the reserve for which 
his boyhood was remarkable; and that served to repress all startling 
demonstrations of feeling. My master’s uneasiness experienced a 
lull, and further circumstances diverted it into another channel for 
a space. 

His new source of trouble sprang from the not-anticipated mis¬ 
fortune of Isabella Linton evincing a sudden and irresistible attrac¬ 
tion towards the tolerated guest. She was at that time a charming 
young lady of eighteen; infantile in manners, though possessed of 
keen wit, keen feelings, and a keen temper, too, if irritated. Her 
brother, who loved her tenderly, was appalled at this fantastic 
preference. Leaving aside the degradation of an alliance with a 
nameless man, and the possible fact that his property, in default of 
heirs male, might pass into such a one’s power, he had sense to com¬ 
prehend Heathcliff’s disposition: to know that, though his exterior 
was altered, his mind was unchangeable and unchanged. And he 
dreaded that mind: it revolted him: he shrank forebodingly from 
the idea of committing Isabella to his keeping. He would have 
recoiled still more had he been aware that her attachment rose un¬ 
solicited, and was bestowed where it awakened no reciprocation of 
sentiment; for the minute he discovered its existence, he laid the 
blame on Heathcliff’s deliberate designing. 

We had all remarked, during some time, that Miss Linton fretted 
and pined over something. She grew cross and wearisome; snap- 

84 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


ping at and teasing Catherine continually, at the imminent risk of 
exhausting her limited patience. We excused her, to a certain ex¬ 
tent, on the plea of ill-health: she was dwindling and fading before 
our eyes. But one day, when she had been peculiarly wayward, 
rejecting her breakfast, complaining that the servants did not do 
what she told them; that the mistress would allow her to be nothing 
in the house, and Edgar neglected her; that she had caught a cold 
with the doors being left open, and we let the parlour fire go out on 
purpose to vex her, with a hundred yet more frivolous accusations, 
Mrs Linton peremptorily insisted that she should get to bed; and, 
having scolded her heartily, threatened to send for the doctor. 
Mention of Kenneth caused her to exclaim, instantly, that her health 
was perfect, and it was only Catherine’s harshness which made her 
unhappy. 

“How can you say I am harsh, you naughty fondling?” cried the 
mistress, amazed at the unreasonable assertion. “You are surely 
losing your reason. When have I been harsh, tell me?” 

“Yesterday,” sobbed Isabella, “and now!” 

“Yesterday!” said her sister-in-law. “On what occasion?” 

“In our walk along the moor: you told me to ramble where I 
pleased, while you sauntered on with Mr Heathcliff! ” 

“And that’s your notion of harshness?” said Catherine, laugh¬ 
ing. “It was no hint that your company was superfluous: we didn’t 
care whether you kept with us or not; I merely thought Heath- 
cliff’s talk would have nothing entertaining for your ears.” 

“Oh, no,” wept the young lady; “you wished me away, because 
you knew I liked to be there!” 

“Is she sane?” asked Mrs Linton, appealing to me. “I’ll re¬ 
peat our conversation, word for word, Isabella; and you point out 
any charm it could have had for you.” 

“I don’t mind the conversation,” she answered: “I wanted to be 
with”- 

“Well!” said Catherine, perceiving her hesitate to complete the 
sentence. 

“With him: and I won’t be always sent off!” she continued, 
kindling up. “You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no 
one to be loved but yourself!” 

“You are an impertinent little monkey!” exclaimed Mrs Linton, 
in surprise. “But I’ll not believe this idiocy! It is impossible 
that you can covet the admiration of Heathcliff — that you con- 

85 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


sider him an agreeable person! I hope I have misunderstood you, 
Isabella?” 

“No, you have not,” said the infatuated girl. “I love him more 
than ever you loved Edgar; and he might love me, if you would let 
him!” 

“I wouldn’t be you for a kingdom, then!” Catherine declared 
emphatically: and she seemed to speak sincerely. “Nelly, help 
me to convince her of her madness. Tell her what Heathcliff is: 
an unreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation: 
an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone. I’d as soon put that 
little canary into the park on a winter’s day, as recommend you to 
bestow your heart on him! It is deplorable ignorance of his char¬ 
acter, child, and nothing else, which makes that dream enter your 
head. Pray, don’t imagine that he conceals depths of benevolence 
and affection beneath a stern exterior! He’s not a rough diamond 
— a pearl-containing oyster of a rustic: he’s a fierce, pitiless, wolfish 
man. I never say to him, ‘ Let this or that enemy alone, because it 
would be ungenerous or cruel to harm them; ’ I say, 1 Let them 
alone, because I should hate them to be wronged: ’ and he’d crush 
you like a sparrow’s egg, Isabella, if he found you a troublesome 
charge. I know he couldn’t love a Linton; and yet he’d be quite 
capable of marrying your fortune and expectations ! avarice is grow¬ 
ing with him a besetting sin. There’s my picture: and I’m his 
friend — so much so, that had he thought seriously to catch you, I 
should, perhaps, have held my tongue, and let you fall into his trap.” 

Miss Linton regarded her sister-in-law with indignation. 

“For shame! for shame !” she repeated angrily, “you are worse 
than twenty foes, you poisonous friend!” 

“Ah! you won’t believe me, then?” said Catherine. “You 
think I speak from wicked selfishness?” 

“I’m certain you do,” retorted Isabella; “and I shudder at you !” 

“Good!” cried the other. “Try for yourself, if that be your 
spirit: I have done, and yield the argument to your saucy inso¬ 
lence.” 

“And I must suffer for her egotism !” she sobbed, as Mrs Linton 
left the room. “All, all is against me: she has blighted my single 
consolation. But she uttered falsehoods, didn’t she? Mr Heath- 
cliff is not a fiend: he has an honourable soul, and a true one, or 
how could he remember her?” 

“Banish him from your thoughts, miss,” I said. “He’s a bird 

86 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


of bad omen: no mate for you. Mrs Linton spoke strongly, and 
yet I can’t contradict her. She is better acquainted with his heart 
than I, or anyone besides; and she would never represent him as 
worse than he is. Honest people don’t hide their deeds. How has 
he been living? how has he got rich? why is he staying at Wuther- 
ing Heights, the house of a man whom he abhors? They say Mr 
Earnshaw is worse and worse since he came. They sit up all night 
together continually, and Hindley has been borrowing money on 
his land, and does nothing but play and drink: I heard only a week 
ago — it was Joseph who told me — I met him at Gimmerton: 
‘ Nelly,’ he said, ‘ we’s hae a crowner’s ’quest enow, at ahr folks’. One 
on ’em’s a’most getten his finger cut off wi’ hauding t’other fro’ 
stickin hisseln loike a cawlf. That’s maister, yah knaw, ’at’s soa 
up o’ going tuh t’ grand ’sizes. He’s noan feared o’ t’ bench o’ 
judges, norther Paul, nur Peter, nur John, nur Matthew, nor noan 
on ’em, not he ! He fair likes — he langs to set his brazened face 
agean ’em! And yon bonny lad Heathcliff, yah mind, he’s a rare 
’un! He can girn a laugh as well’s onybody at a raight divil’s jest. 
Does he niver say nowt of his fine living amang us, when he goes to 
t’ Grange ? This is t’ way on’t: — up at sundown: dice, brandy, 
cloised shutters, und can’le-light till next day at noon: then, t’ 
food gangs banning un raving to his cham’er, makking dacent fowks 
dig thur fingers i’ thur lugs fur varry shame; un’ the knave, why he 
can caint his brass, un ate, un sleep, un off to his neighbour’s to gossip 
wi’ t’ wife. I’ course, he tells Dame Catherine how her fathur’s 
goold runs into his pocket, and her fathur’s son gallops down t’ 
broad road, while he flees afore to oppen t’ pikes?’ Now, Miss 
Linton, Joseph is an old rascal, but no liar; and, if his account of 
Heathcliff’s conduct be true, you would never think of desiring such 
a husband, would you?” 

“You are leagued with the rest, Ellen!” she replied. “I’ll not 
listen to your slanders. What malevolence you must have to wish 
to convince me that there is no happiness in the world!” 

Whether she would have got over this fancy if left to herself, or 
persevered in nursing it perpetually, I cannot say: she had little 
time to reflect. The day after, there was a justice-meeting at the 
next town; my master was obliged to attend; and Mr Heathcliff, 
aware of his absence, called rather earlier than usual. Catherine 
and Isabella were sitting in the library, on hostile terms, but silent. 
The latter alarmed at her recent indiscretion, and the disclosure she 

87 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


had made of her secret feelings in a transient fit of passion; the 
former, on mature consideration, really offended with her compan¬ 
ion; and, if she laughed again at her pertness, inclined to make it 
no laughing matter to her. She did laugh as she saw Heathcliff pass 
the window. I was sweeping the hearth, and I noticed a mischiev¬ 
ous smile on her lips. Isabella, absorbed in her meditations, or a 
book, remained till the door opened; and it was too late to attempt an 
escape, which she would gladly have done had it been practicable. 

“Come in, that’s right!” exclaimed the mistress gaily, pulling 
a chair to the fire. “Here are two people sadly in need of a third 
to thaw the ice between them; and you are the very one we should 
both of us choose. Heathcliff, I’m proud to show you, at last, 
somebody that dotes on you more than myself. I expect you to 
feel flattered. Nay, it’s not Nelly; don’t look at her! My poor 
little sister-in-law is breaking her heart by mere contemplation of 
your physical and moral beauty. It lies in your own power to be 
Edgar’s brother! No, no, Isabella, you shan’t run off,” she con¬ 
tinued, arresting, with feigned playfulness, the confounded girl, 
who had risen indignantly. “We were quarrelling like cats about 
you, Heathcliff; and I was fairly beaten in protestations of devo¬ 
tion and admiration: and, moreover, I was informed that if I would 
but have the manners to stand aside, my rival, as she will have her¬ 
self to be, would shoot a shaft into your soul that would fix you for 
ever, and send my image into eternal oblivion !” 

“Catherine!” said Isabella, calling up her dignity, and disdain¬ 
ing to struggle from the tight grasp that held her. “I’d thank you 
to adhere to the truth and not slander me, even in joke ! Mr Heath¬ 
cliff, be kind enough to bid this friend of yours release me: she 
forgets that you and I are not intimate acquaintances; and what 
amuses her is painful to me beyond expression.” 

As the guest answered nothing, but took his seat, and looked 
thoroughly indifferent what sentiments she cherished concerning 
him, she turned and whispered an earnest appeal for liberty to her 
tormentor. 

“By no means!” cried Mrs Linton in answer. “I won’t be 
named a dog in the manger again. You shall stay: now then! 
Heathcliff, why don’t you evince satisfaction at my pleasant news ? 
Isabella swears that the love Edgar has for me is nothing to that 
she entertains for you. I’m sure she made some speech of the kind; 
did she not, Ellen? And she has fasted ever since the day before 

88 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


yesterday’s walk, from sorrow and rage that I despatched her out 
of your society under the idea of its being unacceptable.” 

“I think you belie her,” said Heathcliff, twisting his chair to face 
them. “She wishes to be out of my society now, at any rate!” 

And he stared hard at the object of discourse, as one might do at 
a strange repulsive animal: a centipede from the Indies, for in¬ 
stance, which curiosity leads one to examine in spite of the aversion 
it raises. The poor thing couldn’t bear that: she grew white and 
red in rapid succession, and, while tears beaded her lashes, bent the 
strength of her small fingers to loosen the firm clutch of Catherine; 
and perceiving that as fast as she raised one finger oh her arm 
another closed down, and she could not remove the whole together, 
she began to make use of her nails; and their sharpness presently 
ornamented the detainer’s with crescents of red. 

“There’s a tigress!” exclaimed Mrs Linton, setting her free, 
and shaking her hand with pain. “Begone, for God’s sake, and 
hide your vixen face! How foolish to reveal those talons to him. 
Can’t you fancy the conclusions he’ll draw? Look, Heathcliff! 
they are instruments that will do execution — you must beware 
of your eyes.” 

“I’d wrench them off her fingers, if they ever menaced me,” he 
answered brutally, when the door had closed after her. “But 
what did you mean by teasing the creature in that manner, Cathy ? 
You were not speaking the truth, were you?” 

“I assure you I was,” she returned. “She has been dying 
for your sake several weeks; and raving about you this morning, 
and pouring forth a deluge of abuse, because I represented your 
failings in a plain light, for the purpose of mitigating her adoration. 
But don’t notice it further: I wished to punish her sauciness, that’s 
all. I like her too well, my dear Heathcliff, to let you absolutely 
seize and devour her up.” 

“And I like her too ill to attempt it,” said he, “except in a very 
ghoulish fashion. You’d hear of odd things if I lived alone with 
that mawkish, waxen face: the most ordinary would be painting 
on its white the colours of the rainbow, and turning the blue eyes 
black, every day or two: they detestably resemble Linton’s.” 

“Delectably!” observed Catherine. “They are dove’s eyes — 
angel’s l” 

“She’s her brother’s heir, is she not?” he asked, after a brief 
silence. 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“I should be sorry to think so,” returned his companion. “ Half- 
a-dozen nephews shall erase her title, please Heaven! Abstract 
your mind from the subject at present: you are too prone to covet 
your neighbour’s goods; remember this neighbour’s goods are 
mine.” 

“If they were mine, they would be none the less that,” said Heath- 
cliff; “but though Isabella Linton may be silly, she is scarcely mad; 
and, in short, we’ll dismiss the matter, as you advise.” 

From their tongues they did dismiss it; and Catherine, probably, 
from her thoughts. The other, I felt certain, recalled it often in the 
course of the evening. I saw him smile to himself — grin rather — 
and lapse into ominous musing whenever Mrs Linton had occasion 
to be absent from the apartment. 

I determined to watch his movements. My heart invariably 
cleaved to the master’s, in preference to Catherine’s side: with 
reason I imagined, for he was kind, and trustful, and honourable; 
and she — she could not be called the opposite , yet she seemed to 
allow herself such wide latitude, that I had little faith in her princi¬ 
ples, and still less sympathy for her feelings. I wanted something 
to happen which might have the effect of freeing both Wuthering 
Heights and the Grange of Mr Heathcliff, quietly; leaving us as we 
had been prior to his advent. His visits were a continual nightmare 
to me; and, I suspected, to my master also. His abode at the 
Heights was an oppression past explaining. I felt that God had 
forsaken the stray sheep there to its own wicked wanderings, and an 
evil beast prowled between it and the fold, waiting his time to spring 
and destroy. 


CHAPTER XI. 

S OMETIMES, while meditating on these things in solitude, 
I’ve got up in a sudden terror, and put on my bonnet to go see 
how all was at the farm. I’ve persuaded my conscience that it was a 
duty to warn him how people talked regarding his ways; and then 
I’ve recollected his confirmed bad habits, and, hopeless of benefiting 
him, have flinched from re-entering the dismal house, doubting if I 
could bear to be taken at my word. 

One time I passed the old gate, going out of my way, on a journey 
to Gimmerton. It was about the period that my narrative has 

90 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


reached: a bright frosty afternoon; the ground bare, and the road 
hard and dry. I came to a stone where the highway branches off 
on to the moor at your left hand; a rough sand-pillar, with the 
letters W.H. cut on its north side, on the east, G., and on the south¬ 
west, T.G. It serves as a guide-post to the Grange, the Heights, 
and village. The sun shone yellow on its grey head, reminding me 
of summer; and I cannot say why, but all at once, a gush of child’s 
sensations flowed into my heart. Hindley and I held it a favourite 
spot twenty years before. I gazed long at the weather-worn block, 
and, stooping down, perceived a hole near the bottom still full of 
snail-shells and pebbles, which we were fond of storing there with 
more perishable things; and, as fresh as reality, it appeared that I 
beheld my early playmate seated on the withered turf: his dark, 
square head bent forward, and his little hand scooping out the earth 
with a piece of slate. “Poor Hindley!” I exclaimed involuntarily. 
I started: my bodily eye was cheated into a momentary belief that 
the child lifted its face and stared straight into mine! It vanished 
in a twinkling; but immediately I felt an irresistible yearning to be 
at the Heights. Superstition urged me to comply wflth this impulse: 
supposing he should be dead ! I thought — or should die soon! — 
supposing it were a sign of death! The nearer I got to the house 
the more agitated I grew; and on catching sight of it I trembled 
every limb. The apparition had outstripped me: it stood looking 
through the gate. That was my first idea on observing an elf- 
locked, brown-eyed boy setting his ruddy countenance against the 
bars. Further reflection suggested this must be Hareton, my Hare- 
ton, not altered greatly since I left him, ten months since. 

“God bless thee, darling!” I cried, forgetting instantaneously 
my foolish fears. “Hareton, it’s Nelly! Nelly, thy nurse.” 

He retreated out of arm’s length, and picked up a large flint. 

“I am come to see thy father, Hareton,” I added, guessing from 
the action that Nelly, if she lived in his memory at all, was not recog¬ 
nised as one with me. 

He raised his missile to hurl it; I commenced a soothing speech, 
but could not stay his hand: the stone struck my bonnet; and then 
ensued, from the stammering lips of the little fellow, a string of 
curses, which, whether he comprehended them or not, were delivered 
with practised emphasis, and distorted his baby features into a 
shocking expression of malignity. You may be certain this grieved 
more than angered me. Fit to cry, I took an orange from my pocket, 

9 1 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and offered it to propitiate him. He hesitated, and then snatched 
it from my hold; as if he fancied I only intended to tempt and dis¬ 
appoint him. I showed another, keeping it out of his reach. 

“Who has taught you those fine words, my bairn?” I inquired. 
“The curate?” 

“Damn the curate, and thee ! Gie me that,” he replied. 

“Tell us where you got your lessons, and you shall have it,” said 
I. “Who’s your master?” 

“Devil daddy,” was his answer. 

“And what do you learn from daddy?” I continued. 

He jumped at the fruit; I raised it higher. “What does he teach 
you?” I asked. 

“Naught,” said he, “but to keep out of his gait. Daddy cannot 
bide me, because I swear at him.” 

“Ah! and the devil teaches you to swear at daddy?” I observed. 

“Ay — nay,” he drawled. 

“Who then?” 

“Heathcliff.” 

I asked if he liked Mr Heathcliff. 

“Ay!” he answered again. 

Desiring to have his reasons for liking him, I could only gather the 
sentences — “I known’t: he pays dad back what he gies to me —■ 
he curses daddy for cursing me. He says I mun do as I will.” 

“And the curate does not teach you to read and write then?” I 
pursued. 

“No, I was told the curate should have his - teeth dashed 

down his-throat, if he stepped over the threshold — Heathcliff 

had promised that!” 

I put the orange in his hand, and bade him tell his father that a 
woman called Nelly Dean was waiting to speak with him, by the 
garden gate. He went up the walk, and entered the house; but, 
instead of Hindley, Heathcliff appeared on the door stones; and I 
turned directly and ran down the road as hard as ever I could race, 
making no halt till I gained the guide-post, and feeling as scared as 
if I had raised a goblin. This is not much connected with Miss 
Isabella’s affair: except that it urged me to resolve further on mount¬ 
ing vigilant guard, and doing my utmost to check the spread of such 
bad influence at the Grange: even though I should wake a domestic 
storm, by thwarting Mrs Linton’s pleasure. 

The next time Heathcliff came, my young lady chanced to be 

9 2 




WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


feeding some pigeons in the court. She had never spoken a word 
to her sister-in-law for three days; but she had likewise dropped her 
fretful complaining, and we found it a great comfort. Heathcliff 
had not the habit of bestowing a single unnecessary civility on Miss 
Linton, I knew. Now, as soon as he beheld her, his first precaution 
was to take a sweeping survey of the house-front. I was standing 
by the kitchen window, but I drew out of sight. He then stepped 
across the pavement to her, and said something: she seemed em¬ 
barrassed, and desirous of getting away; to prevent it, he laid his 
hand on her arm. She averted her face: he apparently put some 
question which she had no mind to answer. There was another 
rapid glance at the house, and supposing himself unseen, the 
scoundrel had the impudence to embrace her. 

“Judas! traitor!” I ejaculated. “You are a hypocrite, too, 
are you? A deliberate deceiver.” 

“Who is, Nelly?” said Catherine’s voice at my elbow: I had 
been over intent on watching the pair outside to mark her entrance. 

“Your worthless friend!” I answered warmly: “the sneaking 
rascal yonder. Ah, he has caught a glimpse of us — he is coming 
in! I wonder will he have the heart to find a plausible excuse for 
making love to Miss, when he told you he hated her?” 

Mrs Linton saw Isabella tear herself free, and run into the garden; 
and a minute after, Heathcliff opened the door. I couldn’t with¬ 
hold giving some loose to my indignation; but Catherine angrily 
insisted on silence, and threatened to order me out of the kitchen, if 
I dared to be so presumptuous as to put in my insolent tongue. 

“To hear you, people might think you were the mistress!” she 
cried. “You want setting down in your right place! Heathcliff, 
what are you about, raising this stir? I said you must let Isabella 
alone ! — I beg you will, unless you are tired of being received here, 
and wish Linton to draw the bolts against you !” 

“God forbid that he should try!” answered the black villain. 
I detested him just then. “God keep him meek and patient! 
Every day I grow madder after sending him to heaven !” 

“Hush!” said Catherine, shutting the inner door. “Don’t vex 
me. Why have you disregarded my request ? Did she come across 
you on purpose?” 

“What is it to you?” he growled. “I have a right to kiss her, 
if she chooses; and you have no right to object. I am not your hus¬ 
band: you needn’t be jealous of me!” 

93 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Pm not jealous of you,” replied the mistress, “I’m jealous jor 
you. Clear your face: you shan’t scowl at me! If you like Isa¬ 
bella, you shall marry her. But do you like her? Tell the truth, 
Heathcliff! There, you won’t answer. I’m certain you don’t!” 

“And would Mr Linton approve of his sister marrying that man ? ” 
I inquired. 

“Mr Linton should approve,” returned my lady, decisively. 

“He might spare himself the trouble,” said Heathcliff: “I could 
do as well without his approbation. And as to you, Catherine, I 
have a mind to speak a few words now, while we are at it. I want 
you to be aware that I know you have treated me infernally — in¬ 
fernally ! Do you hear ? And if you flatter yourself that I don’t 
perceive it, you are a fool; and if you think I can be consoled by 
sweet words, you are an idiot; and if you fancy I’ll suffer unre¬ 
venged, I’ll convince you of the contrary, in a very little while! 
Meantime, thank you for telling me your sister-in-law’s secret: I 
swear I’ll make the most of it. And stand you aside!” 

“What new phase of his character is this?” exclaimed Mrs Lin¬ 
ton, in amazement. “I’ve treated you infernally — and you’ll take 
your revenge! How will you take it, ungrateful brute ? How have 
I treated you infernally?” 

“I seek no revenge on you,” replied Heathcliff less vehemently. 
“That’s not the plan. The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they 
don’t turn against him; they crush those beneath them. You are 
welcome to torture me to death for your amusement, only allow me 
to amuse myself a little in the same style, and refrain from insult as 
much as you are able. Having levelled my palace, don’t erect a 
hovel and complacently admire your own charity in giving me that 
for a home. If I imagined you really wished me to marry Isabel, 
I’d cut my throat! ” 

“Oh, the evil is that I am not jealous, is it?” cried Catherine. 
“Well, I won’t repeat my offer of a wife: it is as bad as offering 
Satan a lost soul. Your bliss lies, like his, in inflicting misery. 
You prove it. Edgar is restored from the ill-temper he gave way 
to at your coming; I begin to be secure and tranquil; and you, 
restless to know us at peace, appear resolved on exciting a quarrel. 
Quarrel with Edgar, if you please, Heathcliff, and deceive his sister: 
you’ll hit on exactly the most efficient method of revenging yourself 
on me.” 

The conversation ceased. Mrs Linton sat down by the fire, 

94 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


flushed and gloomy. The spirit which served her was growing in¬ 
tractable: she could neither lay nor control it. He stood on the 
hearth with folded arms, brooding on his evil thoughts; and in this 
position I left them to seek the master, who was wondering what 
kept Catherine below so long. 

“Ellen,” said he, when I entered, “have you seen your mistress?” 

“Yes; she’s in the kitchen, sir,” I answered. “She’s sadly put 
out by Mr Heathcliff’s behaviour: and, indeed, I do think it’s time 
to arrange his visits on another footing. There’s harm in being too 

soft, and now it’s come to this”- And I related the scene in the 

court, and, as near as I dared, the whole subsequent dispute. I 
fancied it could not be very prejudicial to Mrs Linton; unless she 
made it so afterwards, by assuming the defensive for her guest. 
Edgar Linton had difficulty in hearing me to the close. His first 
words revealed that he did not clear his wife of blame. 

“This is insufferable!” he exclaimed. “It is disgraceful that 
she should own him for a friend, and force his company on me! 
Call me two men out of the hall, Ellen. Catherine shall linger no 
longer to argue with the low ruffian—I have humoured her enough.” 

He descended, and bidding the servants wait in the passage, went, 
followed by me, to the kitchen. Its occupants had recommenced 
their angry discussion: Mrs Linton, at least, was scolding with re¬ 
newed vigour; Heathcliff had moved to the window, and hung his 
head, somewhat cowed by her violent rating apparently. He saw 
the master first, and made a hasty motion that she should be silent; 
which she obeyed, abruptly, on discovering the reason of his inti¬ 
mation. 

“How is this?” said Linton, addressing her; “what notion of 
propriety must you have to remain here, after the language which 
has been held to you by that blackguard? I suppose, because it is 
his ordinary talk, you think nothing of it; you are habituated to his 
baseness, and, perhaps, imagine I can get used to it too !” 

“Have you been listening at the door, Edgar?” asked the mis¬ 
tress, in a tone particularly calculated to provoke her husband, im¬ 
plying both carelessness and contempt of his irritation. Heath- 
cliff, who had raised his eyes at the former speech, gave a sneering 
laugh at the latter; on purpose, it seemed, to draw Mr Linton’s 
attention to him. He succeeded; but Edgar did not mean to enter¬ 
tain him with any high flights of passion. 

“I have been so far forbearing with you, sir,” he said quietly; 

95 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“not that I was ignorant of your miserable, degraded character, 
but I felt you were only partly responsible for that; and 
Catherine wishing to keep up your acquaintance, I acquiesced — 
foolishly. Your presence is a moral poison that would contaminate 
the most virtuous: for that cause, and to prevent worse consequences, 
I shall deny you hereafter admission into this house, and give notice 
now that I require your instant departure. Three minutes’ delay 
will render it involuntary and ignominious.” 

Heathcliff measured the height and breadth of the speaker with 
an eye full of derision. 

“Cathy, this lamb of yours threatens like a bull!” he said. “It 
is in danger of splitting its skull against my knuckles. By God! 
Mr Linton, I’m mortally sorry that you are not worth knocking 
down! ” 

My master glanced towards the passage, and signed me to fetch 
the men: he had no intention of hazarding a personal encounter. 
I obeyed the hint; but Mrs Linton, suspecting something, followed; 
and when I attempted to call them, she pulled me back, slammed 
the door to, and locked it. 

“Fair means ! ” she said, in answer to her husband’s look of angry 
surprise. “If you have not courage to attack him, make an apology, 
or allow yourself to be beaten. It will correct you of feigning more 
valour than you possess. No, I’ll swallow the key before you shall 
get it! I’m delightfully rewarded for my kindness to each! 
After constant indulgence of one’s weak nature, and the other’s bad 
one, I earn for thanks two samples of blind ingratitude, stupid to 
absurdity! Edgar, I was defending you and yours; and I wish 
Heathcliff may flog you sick, for daring to think an evil thought of 
me! ” 

It did not need the medium of a flogging to produce that effect 
on the master. He tried to wrest the key from Catherine’s grasp, 
and for safety she flung it into the hottest part of the fire; where¬ 
upon Mr Edgar was taken with a nervous trembling, and his coun¬ 
tenance grew deadly pale. For his life he could not avert that 
excess of emotion; mingled anguish and humiliation overcame him 
completely. He leant on the back of a chair, and covered his 
face. 

“Oh, heavens! In old days, this would win you knighthood!” 
exclaimed Mrs Linton. “We are vanquished ! we are vanquished ! 
Heathcliff would as soon lift a finger at you as a king would march 

96 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


his army against a colony of mice. Cheer up ! you shan’t be hurt! 
Your type is not a lamb, it’s a sucking leveret.” * 

“I wish you joy of the milk-blooded coward, Cathy!” said her 
friend. I compliment you on your taste. And that is the slavering, 
shivering thing you preferred to me! I would not strike him with 
my fist, but I’d kick him with my foot, and experience considerable 
satisfaction. Is he weeping, or is he going to faint for fear?” 

The fellow approached and gave the chair on which Linton rested 
a push. He’d better have kept his distance; my master quickly 
sprang erect, and struck him full on the throat a blow that would 
have levelled a slighter man. It took his breath for a minute; and 
while he choked, Mr Linton walked out by the back door into the 
yard, and from thence to the front entrance. 

“There ! you’ve done with coming here,” cried Catherine. “Get 
away, now; he’ll return with a brace of pistols, and half-a-dozen 
assistants. If he did overhear us, of course he’d never forgive you. 
You’ve played him an ill turn, Heathcliff! But go — make haste ! 
I’d rather see Edgar at bay than you.” 

“ Do you suppose I’m going with that blow burning in my gullet ? ” 
he thundered. “By hell, no! I’ll crush his ribs in like a rotten 
hazel-nut before I cross the threshold! If I don’t floor him now, I 
shall murder him some time; so, as you value his existence, let me 
get at him!” 

“He’s not coming,” I interposed, framing a bit of a lie. “There’s 
the coachman and the two gardeners; you’ll surely not wait to be 
thrust into the road by them! Each has a bludgeon; and master 
will, very likely, be watching from the parlour windows, to see that 
they fulfil his orders.” 

The gardeners and coachman were there; but Linton was with 
them. They had already entered the court. Heathcliff, on second 
thoughts, resolved to avoid a struggle against the three underlings; 
he seized the poker, smashed the lock from the inner door, and 
made his escape as they tramped in. 

Mrs Linton, who was very much excited, bade me accompany 
her upstairs. She did not know my share in contributing to the 
disturbance, and I was anxious to keep her in ignorance. 

“I’m nearly distracted, Nelly!” she exclaimed, throwing herself 
on the sofa. “A thousand smiths’ hammers are beating in my head ! 
Tell Isabella to shun me; this uproar is owing to her; and should 
she or anyone else aggravate my anger at present, I shall get wild. 

97 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


And, Nelly, say to Edgar, if you see him again to-night, that I’m in 
danger of being seriously ill. I wish it may prove true. He has 
startled and distressed me shockingly! I want to frighten him. 
Besides, he might come and begin a string of abuse or complainings; 
I’m certain I should recriminate, and God knows where we should 
end 1 Will you do so, my good Nelly? You are aware that I am 
in no way blamable in this matter. What possessed him to turn 
listener? Heathcliff’s talk was outrageous, after you left us; but I 
could soon have diverted him from Isabella, and the rest meant 
nothing. Now all is dashed wrong; by the fool’s craving to hear 
evil of self, that haunts some people like a demon! Had Edgar 
never gathered our conversation, he would never have been the 
worse for it. Really, when he opened on me in that unreasonable 
tone of displeasure after I had scolded Heathcliff till I was hoarse 
for him, I did not care, hardly, what they did to each other; especially 
as I felt that, however the scene closed, we should all be driven 
asunder for nobody knows how long! Well, if I cannot keep Heath- 
cliff for my friend — if Edgar will be mean and jealous, I’ll try to 
break their hearts by breaking my own. That will be a prompt 
way of finishing all, when I am pushed to extremity I But it’s a 
deed to be reserved for a forlorn hope; I’d not take Linton by sur¬ 
prise with it. To this point he has been discreet in dreading to pro¬ 
voke me; you must represent the peril of quitting that policy, and 
remind him of my passionate temper, verging, when kindled, on 
frenzy. I wish you could dismiss that apathy out of that counte¬ 
nance, and look rather more anxious about me.” 

The stolidity with which I received these instructions was, no 
doubt, rather exasperating: for they were delivered in perfect sin¬ 
cerity; but I believed a person who could plan the turning of her fits 
of passion to account, beforehand, might, by exerting her will, man¬ 
age to control herself tolerably, even while under their influence; 
and I did not wish to “frighten” her husband, as she said, and 
multiply his annoyances for the purpose of serving her selfishness. 
Therefore I said nothing when I met the master coming towards 
the parlour; but I took the liberty of turning back to listen whether 
they would resume their quarrel together. He began to speak 
first. 

“Remain where you are, Catherine,” he said; without any anger 
in his voice, but with much sorrowful despondency. “I shall not 
stay. I am neither come to wrangle nor be reconciled; but I 

98 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


wish just to learn whether, after this evening’s events, you intend to 
continue your intimacy with ”- 

“Oh, for mercy’s sake,” interrupted the mistress, stamping her 
foot, “for mercy’s sake, let us hear no more of it now! Your cold 
blood cannot be worked into a fever: your veins are full of ice-water; 
but mine are boiling, and the sight of such chillness makes them 
dance.” 

“To get rid of me, answer my question,” persevered Mr Linton. 
“You must answer it; and that violence does not alarm me. I have 
found that you can be as stoical as anyone, when you please. Will 
you give up Heathcliff hereafter, or will you give up me ? It is im¬ 
possible for you to be my friend and his at the same time; and I 
absolutely require to know which you choose.” 

“I require to be let alone!” exclaimed Catherine furiously. “I 
demand it! Don’t you see I can scarcely stand ? Edgar, you — you 
leave me! ” 

She rang the bell till it broke with a twang; I entered leisurely. 
It was enough to try the temper of a saint, such senseless, wicked 
rages ! There she lay dashing her head against the arm of the sofa, 
and grinding her teeth, so that you might fancy she would crash 
them to splinters ! Mr Linton stood looking at her in sudden com¬ 
punction and fear. He told me to fetch some water. She had no 
breath for speaking. I brought a glass full; and as she would not 
drink, I sprinkled it on her face. In a few seconds she stretched 
herself out stiff, and turned up her eyes, while her cheeks, at once 
blanched and livid, assumed the aspect of death. Linton looked 
terrified. 

“There is nothing in the world the matter,” I whispered. I did 
not want him to yield, though I could not help being afraid in my 
heart. 

“She has blood on her lips !” he said, shuddering. 

“Nevermind!” I answered tartly. And I told him how she had 
resolved, previous to his coming, on exhibiting a fit of frenzy. I 
incautiously gave the account aloud, and she heard me; for she 
started up — her hair flying over her shoulders, her eyes flashing, the 
muscles of her neck and arms standing outpreternaturally. I made 
up my mind for broken bones, at least; but she only glared about 
her for an instant, and then rushed from the room. The master 
directed me to follow; I did, to her chamber door: she hindered me 
from going further by securing it against me. 

99 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


As she never offered to descend to breakfast next morning, I went 
to ask whether she would have some carried up. “No!” she re¬ 
plied peremptorily. The same question was repeated at dinner and 
tea; and again on the morrow after, and received the same answer. 
Mr Linton, on his part, spent his time in the library, and did not in¬ 
quire concerning his wife’s occupations. Isabella and he had had 
an hour’s interview, during which he tried to elicit from her some 
sentiment of proper horror for Heathcliff’s advances: but he could 
make nothing of her evasive replies, and was obliged to close the 
examination unsatisfactorily; adding, however, a solemn warning, 
that if she were so insane as to encourage that worthless suitor, it 
would dissolve all bonds of relationship between herself and him. 


CHAPTER XII. 

W HILE Miss Linton moped about the park and garden, 
always silent, and almost always in tears; and her brother 
shut himself up among books that he never opened — wearying, I 
guessed, with a continual vague expectation that Catherine, repent¬ 
ing her conduct, would come of her own accord to ask pardon, and 
seek a reconciliation — and she fasted pertinaciously, under the idea, 
probably, that at every meal, Edgar was ready to choke for her 
absence, and pride alone held him from running to cast himself at 
her feet: I went about my household duties, convinced that the 
Grange had but one sensible soul in its walls, and that lodged in my 
body. I wasted no condolences on miss, nor any expostulations 
on my mistress; nor did I pay much attention to the sighs of my 
master, who yearned to hear his lady’s name, since he might not 
hear her voice. I determined they should come about as they 
pleased for me; and though it was a tiresomely slow process, I 
began to rejoice at length in a faint dawn of its progress: as I 
thought at first. 

Mrs Linton, on the third day, unbarred her door, and having 
finished the water in her pitcher and decanter, desired a renewed 
supply, and a basin of gruel, for she believed she was dying. That 
I set down as a speech meant for Edgar’s ears; I believed no such 
thing, so I kept it to myself and brought her some tea and dry toast. 
She ate and drank eagerly; and sank back on her pillow again 

IOO 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


clenching her hands and groaning. “ Oh, I will die,” she exclaimed, 
“since no one cares anything about me. I wish I had not taken 
that.” Then a good while after I heard her murmur, “No, I’ll not 
die — he’d be glad — he does not love me at all — he would never 
miss me! ” 

“Did you want anything, ma’am?” I inquired, still preserving 
my external composure, in spite of her ghastly countenance, and 
strange exaggerated manner. 

“What is that apathetic being doing?” she demanded, pushing 
the thick entangled locks from her wasted face. “Has he fallen 
into a lethargy, or is he dead?” 

“Neither,” replied I; “if you mean Mr Linton. He’s tolerably 
well, I think, though his studies occupy him rather more than they 
ought: he is continually among his books, since he has no other 
society.” 

I should not have spoken so, if I had known her true condition, 
but I could not get rid of the notion that she acted a part of her 
disorder. 

“Among his books!” she cried, confounded. “And I dying! 
I on the brink of the grave! My God! does he know how I’m 
altered?” continued she, staring at her reflection in a mirror hang¬ 
ing against the opposite wall. “Is that Catherine Linton! He 
imagines me in a pet — in play, perhaps. Cannot you inform him 
that it is frightful earnest ? Nelly, if it be not too late, as soon as I 
learn how he feels, I’ll choose between these two; either to starve 
at once — that would be no punishment unless he had a heart — 
or to recover, and leave the country. Are you speaking the truth 
about him now? Take care. Is he actually so utterly indifferent 
for my life?” 

“Why, ma’am,” I answered, “the master has no idea of your 
being deranged; and of course he does not fear that you will let 
yourself die of hunger.” 

“You think not? Cannot you tell him I will?” she returned. 
“Persuade him! speak of your own mind: say you are certain I 
will! ” 

“No, you forget, Mrs Linton,” I suggested, “that you have eaten 
some food with a relish this evening, and to-morrow you will perceive 
its good effects.” 

“If I were only sure it would kill him,” she interrupted, “I’d kill 
myself directly! These three awful nights, I’ve never closed my 

IOI 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


lids — and oh, I’ve been tormented! I’ve been haunted, Nelly! 
But I begin to fancy you don’t like me. How strange ! I thought, 
though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not 
avoid loving me. And they have all turned to enemies in a few 
hours: they have, I’m positive; the people here. How dreary to 
meet death, surrounded by their cold faces! Isabella, terrified and 
repelled, afraid to enter the room, it would be so dreadful to watch 
Catherine go. And Edgar standing solemnly by to see it over; then 
offering prayers of thanks to God for restoring peace to his house, 
and going back to his books ! What in the name of all that feels has 
he to do with books , when I am dying?” 

She could not bear the notion which I had put into her head of 
Mr Linton’s philosophical resignation. Tossing about, she in¬ 
creased her feverish bewilderment to madness, and tore the pillow 
with her teeth; then raising herself up all burning, desired that I 
would open the window. We were in the middle of winter, the wind 
blew strong from the north-east, and I objected. Both the ex¬ 
pressions flitting over her face, and the changes of her moods, began 
to alarm me terribly; and brought to my recollection her former ill¬ 
ness, and the doctor’s injunction that she should not be crossed. 
A minute previously she was violent; now, supported on one arm, 
and not noticing my refusal to obey her, she seemed to find childish 
diversion in pulling the feathers from the rents she had just made, 
and ranging them on the sheet according to their different species: 
her mind had strayed to other associations. 

“That’s a turkey’s,” she murmured to herself; “and this is a 
wild duck’s; and this is a pigeon’s. Ah, they put pigeons’ feathers 
in the pillows — no wonder I couldn’t die 1 Let me take care to 
throw it on the floor when I lie down. And here is a moor-cock’s; 
and this — I should know it among a thousand — it’s a lapwing’s. 
Bonny bird; wheeling over our heads in the middle of the moor. It 
wanted to get to its nest, for the clouds had touched the swells, and 
it felt rain coming. This feather was picked up from the heath, the 
bird was not shot: we saw its nest in the winter, full of little skeletons. 
Heathcliff set a trap over it, and the old ones dare not come. I 
made him promise he’d never shoot a lapwing after that, and he 
didn’t. Yes, here are more! Did he shoot my lapwings, Nelly? 
Are they red, any of them ! Let me look.” 

“Give over with that baby-work!” I interrupted, dragging the 
pillow away, and turning the holes towards the mattress, for she was 


102 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


removing its contents by handfuls. “ Lie down and shut your eyes: 
you’re wandering. There’s a mess! The down is flying about like 
snow.” 

I went here and there collecting it. 

“I see in you, Nelly,” she continued dreamily, “an aged woman: 
you have grey hair and bent shoulders. This bed is the fairy cave 
under Peniston Crag, and you are gathering elf-bolts to hurt our 
heifers; pretending, while I am near, that they are only locks of 
wool. That’s what you’ll come to fifty years hence: I know you 
are not so now. I’m not wandering: you’re mistaken, or else I 
should believe you really were that withered hag, and I should think 
I was under Peniston Crag; and I’m conscious it’s night, and there 
are two candles on the table making the black press shine like jet.” 

“The black press? where is that?” I asked. “You are talking 
in your sleep!” 

“It’s against the wall, as it always is,” she replied. “It does 
appear odd — I see a face in it!” 

“There’s no press in the room, and never was,” said I, resuming 
my seat, and looping up the curtain that I might watch her. 

“Don’t you see that face?” she inquired, gazing earnestly at the 
mirror. 

And say what I could, I was incapable of making her comprehend 
it to be her own; so I rose and covered it with a shawl. 

“It’s behind there still!” she pursued anxiously. “And it 
stirred. Who is it ? I hope it will not come out when you are gone! 
Oh ! Nelly, the room is haunted ! I’m afraid of being alone !” 

I took her hand in mine, and bid her be composed: for a succes¬ 
sion of shudders convulsed her frame, and she would keep straining 
her gaze towards the glass. 

“There’s nobody here!” I insisted. “It was yourself, Mrs 
Linton: you knew it a while since.” 

“Myself!” she gasped, “and the clock is striking twelve! It’s 

true, then ! that’s dreadful! ” 

Her fingers clutched the clothes, and gathered them over her eyes. 
I attempted to steal to the door with an intention of calling her hus¬ 
band ; but I was summoned back by a piercing shriek — the shawl 
had dropped from the frame. 

“Why, what is the matter?” cried I. “Who is coward now? 
Wake up ! That is the glass — the mirror, Mrs Linton; and you 
see yourself in it, and there am I too, by your side.” 

103 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Trembling and bewildered, she held me fast, but the horror 
gradually passed from her countenance; its paleness gave place to a 
glow of shame. 

“Oh, dear! I thought I was at home,” she sighed. “I thought 
I was lying in my chamber at Wuthering Heights. Because I’m 
weak, my brain got confused, and I screamed unconsciously. Don’t 
say anything; but stay with me. I dread sleeping: my dreams 
appal me.” 

“A sound sleep would do you good, ma’am,” I answered; 
“and I hope this suffering will prevent your trying starving 
again.” 

“ Oh, if I were but in my own bed in the old house! ” she went on 
bitterly, wringing her hands. “And that wind sounding in the firs 
by the lattice. Do let me feel it—it comes straight down the moor 
— do let me have one breath!” 

To pacify her, I held the casement ajar a few seconds. A cold 
blast rushed through; I closed it, and returned to my post. She 
lay still now, her face bathed in tears. Exhaustion of body had 
entirely subdued her spirit: our fiery Catherine was no better than 
a wailing child. 

“How long is it since I shut myself in here?” she asked, suddenly 
reviving. 

“It was Monday evening,” I replied, “and this is Thursday 
night, or rather Friday morning, at present.” 

“What! of the same week?” she exclaimed. “Only that brief 
time?” 

“Long enough to live on nothing but cold water and ill-temper,” 
observed I. 

“Well, it seems a weary number of hours,” she muttered doubt¬ 
fully: “it must be more. I remember being in the parlour after 
they had quarrelled, and Edgar being cruelly provoking, and me 
running into this room desperate. As soon as ever I had barred the 
door, utter blackness overwhelmed me, and I fell on the floor. I 
couldn’t explain to Edgar how certain I felt of having a fit, or going 
raging mad, if he persisted in teasing me! I had no command of 
tongue, or brain, and he did not guess my agony, perhaps: it barely 
left me sense to try to escape from him and his voice. Before I re¬ 
covered sufficiently to see and hear, it began to be dawn, and, Nelly, 
I’ll tell you what I thought, and what has kept recurring and re¬ 
curring till I feared for my reason. I thought as I lay there, with 

104 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


my head against that table leg, and my eyes dimly discerning the grey 
square of the window, that I was enclosed in the oak-panelled bed 
at home; and my heart ached with some great grief which, just 
waking, I could not recollect. I pondered, and worried myself to 
discover what it could be, and, most strangely, the whole last seven 
years of my life grew a blank! I did not recall that they had been 
at all. I was a child; my father was just buried, and my misery 
arose from the separation that Hindley had ordered between me 
and Heathcliff. I was laid alone, for the first time; and, rousing 
from a dismal doze after a night of weeping, I lifted my hand to push 
the panels aside: it struck the table-top! I swept it along the car¬ 
pet, and then memory burst in: my late anguish was swallowed in 
a paroxysm of despair. I cannot say why I felt so wildly wretched: 
it must have been temporary derangement; for there is scarcely 
cause. But, supposing at twelve years old I had been wrenched 
from the Heights, and every early association, and my all in all, as 
Heathcliff was at that time, and been converted at a stroke into Mrs 
Linton, the lady of Thrushcross Grange, and the wife of a stranger: 
an exile, and outcast, thenceforth, from what had been my world. 
You may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where I grovelled! Shake 
your head as you will, Nelly, you have helped to unsettle me! You 
should have spoken to Edgar, indeed you should, and compelled 
him to leave me quiet! Oh, I’m burning! I wish I were out of 
doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; 
and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I 
so changed ? why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few 
words ? I’m sure I should be myself were I once among the heather 
on those hills. Open the window again wide: fasten it open! 
Quick, why don’t you move?” 

“ Because I won’t give you your death of cold,” I answered. 

“You won’t give me a chance of life, you mean,” she said sullenly. 
“However, I’m not helpless, yet: I’ll open it myself.” 

And sliding from the bed before I could hinder her, she crossed 
the room, walking very uncertainly, threw it back, and bent out, 
careless of the frosty air that cut about her shoulders as keen as a 
knife. I entreated, and finally attempted to force her to retire. 
But I soon found her delirious strength much surpassed mine (she 
was delirious, I became convinced by her subsequent actions and 
ravings). There was no moon, and everything beneath lay in misty 
darkness: not a light gleamed from any house, far or near —all had 

105 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


been extinguished long ago; and those at Wuthering Heights were 
never visible — still she asserted she caught their shining. 

“Look!” she cried eagerly, “that’s my room with the candle in 
it, and the trees swaying before it: and the other candle is in Joseph’s 
garret. Joseph sits up late, doesn’t he? He’s waiting till I come 
home that he may lock the gate. Well, he’ll wait a while yet. It’s 
a rough journey, and a sad heart to travel it; and we must pass by 
Gimmerton Kirk, to go that journey! We’ve braved its ghosts 
often together, and dared each other to stand among the graves and 
ask them to come. But, Heathcliff, if I dare you now, will you 
venture? If you do, I’ll keep you. I’ll not lie there by myself: 
they may bury me twelve feet deep, and throw the church down over 
me, but I won’t rest till you are with me. I never will!” 

She paused, and resumed with a strange smile. “He’s consider¬ 
ing — he’d rather I’d come to him! Find a way, then ! not through 
that kirkyard. You are slow! Be content, you always followed 
me!” 

Perceiving it vain to argue against her insanity, I was planning 
how I could reach something to wrap about her, without quitting 
my hold of herself (for I could not trust her alone by the gaping 
lattice), when, to my consternation, I heard the rattle of the door¬ 
handle, and Mr Linton entered. He had only then come from the 
library; and, in passing through the lobby, had noticed our talking 
and been attracted by curiosity, or fear, to examine what it signified, 
at that late hour. 

“Oh, sir!” I cried, checking the exclamation risen to his lips at 
the sight which met him, and the bleak atmosphere of the chamber. 
“My poor mistress is ill, and she quite masters me: I cannot man¬ 
age her at all; pray, come and persuade her to go to bed. Forget 
your anger, for she’s hard to guide any way but her own.” 

“Catherine ill?” he said, hastening to us. “Shut the window, 
Ellen! Catherine! why”- 

He was silent. The haggardness of Mrs Linton’s appearance 
smote him speechless, and he could only glance from her to me in 
horrified astonishment. 

“She’s been fretting here,” I continued, “and eating scarcely any¬ 
thing, and never complaining; she would admit none of us till this 
evening, and so we couldn’t inform you of her state as we were not 
aware of it ourselves; but it is nothing.” 

I felt I uttered my explanations awkwardly; the master frowned. 

106 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“It is nothing, is it, Ellen Dean?” he said sternly. “You shall 
account more clearly for keeping me ignorant of this!” And he 
took his wife in his arms, and looked at her with anguish. 

At first she gave him no glance of recognition; he was invisible 
to her abstracted gaze. The delirium was not fixed, however; 
having weaned her eyes from contemplating the outer darkness, by 
degrees she centred her attention on him, and discovered who it 
was that held her. 

“Ah! you are come, are you, Edgar Linton?” she said, with 
angry animation. “You are one of those things that are ever found 
when least wanted, and when you are wanted, never! I suppose 
we shall have plenty of lamentations now — I see we shall — but 
they can’t keep me from my narrow home out yonder: my resting- 
place, where I’m bound before spring is over! There it is: not 
among the Lintons, mind, under the chapel-roof, but in the open air, 
with a head-stone; and you may please yourself, whether you go 
to them or come to me!” 

“Catherine, what have you done?” commenced the master. 
“Am I nothing to you any more? Do you love that wretch 
Heath-” 

“Hush!” cried Mrs Linton. “Hush, this moment! You men¬ 
tion that name and I end the matter instantly, by a spring from the 
window ! What you touch at present you may have; but my soul 
will be on that hill-top before you lay hands on me again. I don’t 
want you, Edgar: I’m past wanting you. Return to your books. 
I’m glad you possess a consolation, for all you had in me is gone.” 

“Her mind wanders, sir,” I interposed. “She has been talking 
nonsense the whole evening; but let her have quiet, and proper 
attendance, and she’ll rally. Hereafter, we must be cautious how 
we vex her.” 

“I desire no further advice from you,” answered Mr Linton. 
“You knew your mistress’s nature, and you encouraged me to 
harass her. And not to give me one hint of how she has been these 
three days! It was heartless! Months of sickness could not cause 
such a change!” 

I began to defend myself, thinking it too bad to be blamed for 
another’s wicked waywardness. “I knew Mrs Linton’s nature to be 
headstrong and domineering,” cried I; “but I didn’t know that you 
wished to foster her fierce temper! I didn’t know that, to humour 
her, I should wink at Mr Heathcliff. I performed the duty of a 

107 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


faithful servant in telling you, and I have got a faithful servant’s 
wages! Well, it will teach me to be careful next time. Next time 
you may gather intelligence for yourself!” 

“The next time you bring a tale to me, you shall quit my service, 
Ellen Dean,” he replied. 

“You’d rather hear nothing about it, I suppose, then, Mr Lin¬ 
ton?” said I. “ Heathcliff has your permission to come a courting 
to miss, and to drop in at every opportunity your absence offers, 
on purpose to poison the mistress against you?” 

Confused as Catherine was, her wits were alert at applying our 
conversation. 

“Ah! Nelly has played traitor,” she exclaimed passionately. 
“Nelly is my hidden enemy. You witch! So you do seek elf- 
bolts to hurt us ! Let me go, and I’ll make her rue ! I’ll make her 
howl a recantation! ” 

A maniac’s fury kindled under her brows; she struggled desper¬ 
ately to disengage herself from Linton’s arms. I felt no inclination 
to tarry the event; and, resolving to seek medical aid on my own 
responsibility, I quitted the chamber. 

In passing the garden to reach the road, at a place where a 
bridle hook is driven into the wall, I saw something white moved 
irregularly, evidently by another agent than the wind. Notwith¬ 
standing my hurry, I stayed to examine it, lest ever after I should 
have the conviction impressed on my imagination that it was a 
creature of the other world. My surprise and perplexity were great 
on discovering, by touch more than vision, Miss Isabella’s springer, 
Lanny, suspended by a handkerchief, and nearly at its last gasp. 
I quickly released the animal, and lifted it into the garden. I had 
seen it follow its mistress upstairs when she went to bed; and 
wondered much how it could have got out there, and what mis¬ 
chievous person had treated it so. While untying the knot round 
the hook, it seemed to me that I repeatedly caught the beat of 
horses’ feet galloping at some distance; but there were such a 
number of things to occupy my reflections that I hardly gave the 
circumstance a thought: though it was a strange sound, in that 
place, at two o’clock in the morning. 

Mr Kenneth was fortunately just issuing from his house to see 
a patient in the village as I came up the street; and my account 
of Catherine Linton’s malady induced him to accompany me back 
immediately. He was a plain rough man; and he made no scruple 

108 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


to speak his doubts of her surviving this second attack; unless she 
were more submissive to his directions than she had shown herself 
before. 

“Nelly Dean,” said he, “I can’t help fancying there’s an extra 
cause for this. What has there been to do at the Grange ? We’ve 
odd reports up here. A stout, hearty lass like Catherine does not 
fall ill for a trifle; and that sort of people should not either. It’s 
hard work bringing them through fevers, and such things. How 
did it begin ?” 

“The master will inform you,” I answered; “but you are ac¬ 
quainted with the Earnshaws’ violent dispositions, and Mrs Linton 
caps them all. I may say this: it commenced in a quarrel. She 
was struck during a tempest of passion with a kind of fit. That’s 
her account, at least; for she flew off in the height of it, and locked 
herself up. Afterwards, she refused to eat, and now she alternately 
raves and remains in a half dream; knowing those about her, but 
having her mind filled with all sorts of strange ideas and illusions.” 

“Mr Linton will be sorry?” observed Kenneth, interrogatively. 

“Sorry? he’ll break his heart should anything happen!” I re¬ 
plied. “Don’t alarm him more than necessary.” 

“Well, I told him to beware,” said my companion; “and he 
must bide the consequences of neglecting my warning! Hasn’t he 
been intimate with Mr Heathcliff, lately ? ” 

“Heathcliff frequently visits at the Grange,” answered I, “though 
more on the strength of the mistress having known him when a boy, 
than because the master likes his company. At present, he’s dis¬ 
charged from the trouble of calling; owing to some presumptuous 
aspirations after Miss Linton which he manifested. I hardly think 
he’ll be taken in again.” 

“And does Miss Linton turn a cold shoulder on him?” was the 
doctor’s next question. 

“I’m not in her confidence,” returned I, reluctant to continue 
the subject. 

“No, she’s a sly one,” he remarked, shaking his head. “She 
keeps her own counsel! But she’s a real little fool. I have it 
from good authority, that, last night (and a pretty night it was!) 
she and Heathcliff were walking in the plantation at the back of 
your house, above two hours; and he pressed her not to go in again, 
but just mount his horse and away with him! My informant said 
she could only put him off by pledging her word of honour to be 

109 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


prepared on their first meeting after that: when it was to be, he 
didn’t hear; but you urge Mr Linton to look sharp!” 

This news filled me with fresh fears; I outstripped Kenneth, and 
ran most of the way back. The little dog was yelping in the garden 
yet. I spared a minute to open the gate for it, but instead of going 
to the house door, it coursed up and down snuffing the grass, and 
would have escaped to the road, had I not seized and conveyed it 
in with me. On ascending to Isabella’s room, my suspicions were 
confirmed: it was empty. Had I been a few hours sooner, Mrs 
Linton’s illness might have arrested her rash step. But what could 
be done now? There was a bare possibility of overtaking them if 
pursued instantly. I could not pursue them, however; and I dare 
not rouse the family, and fill the place with confusion; still less 
unfold the business to my master, absorbed as he was in his present 
calamity, and having no heart to spare for a second grief! I saw 
nothing for it but to hold my tongue, and suffer matters to take 
their course; and Kenneth being arrived, I went with a badly 
composed countenance to announce him. Catherine lay in a 
troubled sleep: her husband had succeeded in soothing the excess 
of frenzy: he now hung over her pillow, watching every shade, 
and every change of her painfully expressive features. 

The doctor, on examining the case for himself, spoke hopefully 
to him of its having a favourable termination, if we could only 
preserve around her perfect and constant tranquillity. To me, he 
signified the threatening danger was not so much death, as per¬ 
manent alienation of intellect. 

I did not close my eyes that night, nor did Mr Linton: indeed, 
we never went to bed; and the servants were all up long before the 
usual hour, moving through the house with stealthy tread, and ex¬ 
changing whispers as they encountered each other in their vocations. 
Everyone was active, but Miss Isabella; and they began to remark 
how sound she slept: her brother, too, asked if she had risen, and 
seemed impatient for her presence, and hurt that she showed so 
little anxiety for her sister-in-law. I trembled lest he should send 
me to call her; but I was spared the pain of being the first pro¬ 
claimant of her flight. One of the maids, a thoughtless girl, who 
had been on an early errand to Gimmerton, came panting upstairs, 
open mouthed, and dashed into the chamber, crying — 

“Oh, dear, dear! What mun we have next? Master, master, 
our young lady ”- 


IIO 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Hold your noise!” cried I hastily, enraged at her clamorous 
manner. 

“Speak lower, Mary — What is the matter?” said Mr Linton. 
“What ails your young lady?” 

“She’s gone, she’s gone! Yon’ Heathcliff’s run off wi’ her!” 
gasped the girl. 

“That is not true!” exclaimed Linton, rising in agitation. “It 
cannot be: how has the idea entered your head ? Ellen Dean, go 
and seek her. It is incredible: it cannot be.” 

As he spoke he took the servant to the door, and then repeated 
his demand to know her reasons for such an assertion. 

“Why, I met on the road a lad that fetches milk here,” she 
stammered, “and he asked whether we weren’t in trouble at the 
Grange. I thought he meant for missis’s sickness, so I answered, 
yes. Then says he, ‘There’s somebody gone after ’em, I guess?’ 
I stared. He saw I knew nought about it, and he told how a gentle¬ 
man and lady had stopped to have a horse’s shoe fastened at a 
blacksmith’s shop, two miles out of Gimmerton, not very long after 
midnight! and how the blacksmith’s lass had got up to spy who they 
were: she knew them both directly. And she noticed the man — 
Heathcliff it was, she felt certain: nob’dy could mistake him, be¬ 
sides — put a sovereign in her father’s hand for payment. The 
lady had a cloak about her face; but having desired a sup of water, 
while she drank, it fell back, and she saw her very plain. Heath- 
cliff held both bridles as they rode on, and they set their faces from 
the village, and went as fast as the rough roads would let them. 
The lass said nothing to her father, but she told it all over Gimmer¬ 
ton this morning.” 

I ran and peeped, for form’s sake, into Isabella’s room; con¬ 
firming, when I returned, the servant’s statement. Mr Linton 
had resumed his seat by the bed; on my re-entrance, he raised his 
eyes, read the meaning of my blank aspect, and dropped them with¬ 
out giving an order, or uttering a word. 

“Are we to try any measures for overtaking and bringing her 
back?” I inquired. “How should we do?” 

“She went of her own accord,” answered the master; “she had 
a right to go if she pleased. Trouble me no more about her. Here¬ 
after she is only my sister in name: not because I disown her, but 
because she has disowned me.” 

And that was all he said on the subject: he did not make a single 


III 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


inquiry further, or mention her in any way, except directing me to 
send what property she had in the house to her fresh home, where- 
ever it was, when I knew it. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

F OR two months the fugitives remained absent; in those two 
months, Mrs Linton encountered and conquered the worst 
shock of what was denominated a brain fever. No mother could 
have nursed an only child more devotedly than Edgar tended her. 
Day and night he was watching, and patiently enduring all the 
annoyances that irritable nerves and a shaken reason could inflict; 
and, though Kenneth remarked that what he saved from the grave 
would only recompense his care by forming the source of constant 
future anxiety — in fact, that his health and strength were being 
sacrificed to preserve a mere ruin of humanity — he knew no 
limits in gratitude and joy when Catherine’s life was declared 
out of danger; and hour after hour he would sit beside her, tracing 
the gradual return to bodily health, and flattering his too sanguine 
hopes with the illusion that her mind would settle back to its right 
balance also, and she would soon be entirely her former self. 

The first time she left her chamber was at the commencement of 
the following March. Mr Linton had put on her pillow, in the 
morning, a handful of golden crocuses; her eye, long stranger to 
any gleam of pleasure, caught them in waking, and shone delighted 
as she gathered them eagerly together. 

“These are the earliest flowers at the Heights,” she exclaimed. 
“They remind me of soft thaw winds, and warm sunshine, and 
nearly melted snow. Edgar, is there not a south wind, and is not 
the snow almost gone?” 

“The snow is quite gone down here, darling,” replied her hus¬ 
band; “and I only see two white spots on the whole range of 
moors: the sky is blue, and the larks are singing, and the becks 
and brooks are all brim full. Catherine, last spring at this time, 
I was longing to have you under this roof, now, I wish you were a 
mile or two up those hills: the air blows so sweetly, I feel that it 
would cure you.” 

“I shall never be there but once more,” said the invalid; “and 


I 12 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


then you’ll leave me, and I shall remain, for ever. Next spring 
you’ll long again to have me under this roof, and you’ll look back 
and think you were happy to-day.” 

Linton lavished on her the kindest caresses, and tried to cheer 
her by the fondest words; but, vaguely regarding the flowers, she 
let the tears collect on her lashes and stream down her cheeks un¬ 
heeding. We knew she was really better, and, therefore, decided 
that long confinement to a single place produced much of this 
despondency, and it might be partially removed by a change of 
scene. The master told me to light a fire in the many-weeks- 
deserted parlour, and to set an easy-chair in the sunshine by the 
.window; and then he brought her down, and she sat a long while 
enjoying the genial heat, and, as we expected, revived by the ob¬ 
jects round her: which, though familiar, were free from the dreary 
associations investing her hated sick chamber. By evening, she 
seemed greatly exhausted; yet no arguments could persuade her 
to return to that apartment, and I had to arrange the parlour sofa 
for her bed, till another room could be prepared. To obviate the 
fatigue of mounting and descending the stairs, we fitted up this, 
where you lie at present: on the same floor with the parlour; and 
she was soon strong enough to move from one to the other, leaning 
on Edgar’s arm. Ah, I thought myself she might recover, so waited 
on as she was. And there was double cause to desire it, for on her 
existence depended that of another: we cherished the hope that in 
a little while, Mr Linton’s heart would be gladdened, and his lands 
secured from a stranger’s gripe, by the birth of an heir. 

I should mention that Isabella sent to her brother, some six 
weeks from her departure, a short note, announcing her marriage 
with Heathcliff. It appeared dry and cold; but at the bottom 
was dotted in with pencil an obscure apology, and an entreaty for 
kind remembrance and reconciliation, if her proceeding had offended 
him: asserting that she could not help it then, and being done, she 
had now no power to repeal it. Linton did not reply to this, I 
believe; and, in a fortnight more, I got a long letter which I con¬ 
sidered odd, coming from the pen of a bride just out of the honey¬ 
moon. I’ll read it: for I keep it yet. Any relic of the dead is 
precious, if they were valued living. 

Dear Ellen, it begins, — 

I came last night to Wuthering Heights, and heard, for the 

I 13 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


first time, that Catherine has been, and is yet, very ill. I must not 
write to her, I suppose, and my brother is either too angry or too 
distressed to answer what I sent him. Still, I must write to some¬ 
body, and the only choice left me is you. 

Inform Edgar that I’d give the world to see his face again — that 
my heart returned to Thrushcross Grange in twenty-four hours after 
I left it, and is there at this moment, full of warm feelings for him, 
and Catherine ! I can’t follow it, though — (those words are under¬ 
lined) they need not expect me, and they may draw what conclusions 
they please; taking care, however, to lay nothing at the door of my 
weak will or deficient affection. 

The remainder of the letter is for yourself alone. I want to ask 
you two questions: the first is, — How did you contrive to preserve 
the common sympathies of human nature when you resided here? 
I cannot recognise any sentiment which those around share with 
me. 

The second question, I have great interest in; it is this — Is 
Mr Heathcliff a man ? If so, is he mad ? And if not, is he a devil ? 
I shan’t tell my reasons for making this inquiry; but, I beseech 
you to explain, if you can, what I have married: that is, when you 
call to see me; and you must call, Ellen, very soon. Don’t write, 
but come, and bring me something from Edgar. 

Now, you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, 
as I am led to imagine the Heights will be. It is to amuse myself 
that I dwell on such subjects as the lack of external comforts: 
they never occupy my thoughts, except at the moment w r hen I miss 
them. I should laugh and dance for joy, if I found their absence 
was the total of my miseries, and the rest was an unnatural dream! 

The sun set behind the Grange, as we turned on to the moors; 
by that, I judged it to be six o’clock; and my companion halted 
half-an-hour, to inspect the park, and the gardens, and, probably, 
the place itself, as well as he could; so it was dark when we dis¬ 
mounted in the paved yard of the farm-house, and your old fellow- 
servant, Joseph, issued out to receive us by the light of a dip candle. 
He did it with a courtesy that redounded to his credit. His first 
act was to elevate his torch to a level with my face, squint malig¬ 
nantly, project his under lip, and turn away. Then he took the 
two horses, and led them into the stables; reappearing for the 
purpose of locking the outer gate, as if we lived in an ancient castle. 

Heathcliff stayed to speak to him, and I entered the kitchen — 

I 14 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


a dingy, untidy hole; I daresay you would not know it, it is so 
changed since it was in your charge. By the fire stood a ruffianly 
child, strong in limb and dirty in garb, with a look of Catherine in 
his eyes and about his mouth. 

“This is Edgar’s legal nephew,” I reflected — “mine in a man¬ 
ner ; I must shake hands, and — yes — I must kiss him. It is 
right to establish a good understanding at the beginning.” 

I approached, and, attempting to take his chubby fist, said — 

“How do you do, my dear?” 

He replied in a jargon I did not comprehend. 

“Shall you and I be friends, Hareton?” was my next essay at 
conversation. 

An oath, and a threat to set Throttler on me if I did not “frame 
off,” rewarded my perseverance. 

“Hey, Throttler, lad!” whispered the little wretch, rousing a 
half-bred bull-dog from its lair in a corner. “Now, wilt thou be 
ganging?” he asked authoritatively. 

Love for my life urged a compliance; I stepped over the threshold 
to wait till the others should enter. Mr Heathcliff was nowhere 
visible; and Joseph, whom I followed to the stables, and requested 
to accompany me in, after staring and muttering to himself, screwed 
up his nose and replied — 

“Mim! mim ! mim ! Did iver Christian body hear aught like 
it? Minching un’ munching! How can I tell whet ye say?” 

“I say, I wish you to come with me into the house!” I cried, 
thinking him deaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness. 

“None o’ me! I getten summut else to do,” he answered, and 
continued his work; moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and 
surveying my dress and countenance (the former a great deal too 
fine, but the latter, I’m sure, as sad as he could desire) with sover¬ 
eign contempt. 

I walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, 
at which I took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil 
servant might show himself. After a short suspense, it was opened 
by a tall, gaunt man, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely 
slovenly; his features were lost in masses of shaggy hair that hung 
on his shoulders; and his eyes, too, were like a ghostly Catherine’s 
with all their beauty annihilated. 

“What’s your business here?” he demanded grimly. “Who are 
you ?” 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“My name was Isabella Linton,” I replied. “You’ve seen me 
before, sir. I’m lately married to Mr Heathcliff, and he has brought 
me here — I suppose by your permission.” 

“Is he come back, then?” asked the hermit, glaring like a hungry 
wolf. 

“Yes — we came just now,” I said; .“but he left me by the 
kitchen door; and when I would have gone in, your little boy 
played sentinel over the place, and frightened me off by the help 
of a bull-dog.” 

“It’s well the hellish villain has kept his word!” growled my 
future host, searching the darkness beyond me in expectation of 
discovering Heathcliff; and then he indulged in a soliloquy of 
execrations, and threats of what he would have done had the 
“fiend” deceived him. 

I repented having tried this second entrance, and was almost 
inclined to slip away before he finished cursing, but ere I could 
execute that intention, he ordered me in, and shut and re-fastened 
the door. There was a great fire, and that was all the light in the 
huge apartment, whose floor had grown a uniform grey; and the 
once brilliant pewter dishes, which used to attract my gaze when 
I was a girl, partook of a similar obscurity, created by tarnish and 
dust. I inquired whether I might call the maid, and be conducted 
to a bed-room ? Mr Earnshaw vouchsafed no answer. He walked 
up and down, with his hands in his pockets, apparently quite for¬ 
getting my presence; and his abstraction was evidently so deep, 
and his whole aspect so misanthropical, that I shrank from dis¬ 
turbing him again. 

You’ll not be surprised, Ellen, at my feeling particularly cheer¬ 
less, seated in worse than solitude on that inhospitable hearth, and 
remembering that four miles distant lay my delightful home, con¬ 
taining the only people I loved on earth; and there might as well 
be the Atlantic to part us, instead of those four miles: I could not 
overpass them! I questioned with myself — where must I turn for 
comfort? and — mind you don’t tell Edgar, or Catherine — above 
every sorrow beside, this rose pre-eminent: despair at finding no¬ 
body who could or would be my ally against Heathcliff! I had 
sought shelter at Wuthering Heights, almost gladly, because I was 
secured by that arrangement from living alone with him; but he 
knew the people we were coming amongst, and he did not fear their 
intermeddling. 

116 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


I sat and thought a doleful time: the clock struck eight, and 
nine, and still my companion paced to and fro, his head bent on 
his breast, and perfectly silent, unless a groan or a bitter ejaculation 
forced itself out at intervals. I listened to detect a woman’s voice 
in the house, and filled the interim with wild regrets and dismal 
anticipations, which, at last, spoke audibly in irrepressible sighing 
and weeping. I was not aware how openly I grieved, till Earnshaw 
halted opposite, in his measured walk, and gave me a stare of newly- 
awakened surprise. Taking advantage of his recovered attention, 
I exclaimed — 

“Em tired with my journey, and I want to go to bed! Where is 
the maid-servant? Direct me to her, as she won’t come to me!” 

“We have none,” he answered; “you must wait on yourself!” 

“Where must I sleep, then?” I sobbed: I was beyond regarding 
self-respect, weighed down by fatigue and wretchedness. 

“Joseph will show you Heathcliff’s chamber,” said he; “open 
that door — he’s in there.” 

I was going to obey, but he suddenly arrested me, and added in 
the strangest tone — 

“Be so good as to turn your lock, and draw your bolt — don’t 
omit it!” 

“Well!” I said. “But why, Mr Earnshaw?” I did not relish 
the notion of deliberately fastening myself in with Heathcliff. 

“Look here!” he replied, pulling from his waistcoat a curiously 
constructed pistol, having a double-edged spring knife attached to 
the barrel. “That’s a great tempter to a desperate man, is it not? 
I cannot resist going up with this every night, and trying his door. 
If once I find it open he’s done for! I do it invariably, even though 
the minute before I have been recalling a hundred reasons that 
should make me refrain: it is some devil that urges me to thwart 
my own schemes by killing him. You fight against that devil for 
love as long as you may; when the time comes, not all the angels 
in heaven shall save him!” 

I surveyed the weapon inquisitively. A hideous notion struck 
me: how powerful I should be possessing such an instrument! I 
took it from his hand, and touched the blade. He looked astonished 
at the expression my face assumed during a brief second: it was not 
horror, it was covetousness. He snatched the pistol back, jealously; 
shut the knife, and returned it to its concealment. 

“I don’t care if you tell him,” said he. “Put him on his guard, 

117 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and watch for him. You know the terms we are on, I see: his 
danger does not shock you.” 

“What has Heathcliff done to you?” I asked. “In what has 
he wronged you, to warrant this appalling hatred? Wouldn’t it be 
wiser to bid him quit the house?” 

“No 1” thundered Earnshaw, “should he offer to leave me, he’s 
a dead man: persuade him to attempt it, and you are a murderess! 
Am I to lose all , without a chance of retrieval ? Is Hareton to be 
a beggar? Oh, damnation! I will have it back: and I’ll have 
his gold too; and then his blood; and hell shall have his soul! It 
will be ten times blacker with that guest than ever it was before!” 

You’ve acquainted me, Ellen, with your old master’s habits. He 
is clearly on the verge of madness: he was so last night at least. I 
shuddered to be near him, and thought on the servant’s ill-bred 
moroseness as comparatively agreeable. He now recommenced his 
moody walk, and I raised the latch, and escaped into the kitchen. 
Joseph was bending over the fire, peering into a large pan that 
swung above it; and a wooden bowl of oatmeal stood on the settle 
close by. The contents of the pan began to boil, and he turned to 
plunge his hand into the bowl; I conjectured that this preparation 
was probably for our supper, and, being hungry, I resolved it should 
be eatable; so, crying out sharply, “/’// make the porridge!” I 
removed the vessel out of his reach, and proceeded to take off my 
hat and riding habit. “Mr Earnshaw,” I continued, “directs me 
to wait on myself: I will. I’m not going to act the lady among you, 
for fear I should starve.” 

“Gooid Lord!” he muttered, sitting down, and stroking his 
ribbed stockings from the knee to the ankle. “If there’s to be fresh 
ortherings — just when I getten used to two maisters, if I mun hev 
a mistress set o’er my heead, it’s like time to be flitting. I niver did 
think to see t’ day that I mud lave th’ owld place — but I doubt 
it’s nigh at hand !” 

This lamentation drew no notice from me: I went briskly to 
work, sighing to remember a period when it would have been all 
merry fun; but compelled speedily to drive off the remembrance. 
It racked me to recall pa.st happiness, and the greater peril there 
was of conjuring up its apparition, the quicker the thible ran round, 
and the faster the handfuls of meal fell into the water. Joseph be¬ 
held my style of cookery with growing indignation. 

“Thear!” he ejaculated, “Hareton, thou willn’t sup thy porridge 

118 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


to-neeght; they’ll be naught but lumps as big as my neive. Thear, 
agean ! I’d fling in bowl un all, if I wer ye! There, pale t’ guilp 
off, un’ then ye’ll hae done wi’t. Bang, bang. It’s a mercy t’ 
bothom isn’t deaved out!” 

It was rather a rough mess, I own, when poured into the basins; 
four had been provided, and a gallon pitcher of new milk was 
brought from the dairy, which Hareton seized and commenced 
drinking and spilling from the expansive lip. I expostulated, and 
desired that he should have his in a mug; affirming that I could 
not taste the liquid treated so dirtily. The old cynic chose to be 
vastly offended at this nicety; assuring me, repeatedly, that “the 
barn was every bit as good” as I, “and every bit as wollsome,” 
and wondering how I could fashion to be so conceited. Meanwhile, 
the infant ruffian continued sucking; and glowered at me defyingly, 
as he slavered into the jug. 

“I shall have my supper in another room,” I said. “Have you 
no place you call a parlour?” 

“Parlour!” he echoed sneeringly, “ parlour! Nay, we’ve noa 
parlours. If yah dunnut loike wer company, there’s maister’s; un’ 
if yah dunnut loike maister, there’s us.” 

“Then I shall go upstairs !” I answered; “show me a chamber.” 

I put my basin on a tray, and went myself to fetch some more 
milk. With great grumblings, the fellow rose, and preceded me in 
my ascent: we mounted to the garrets; he opened a door, now 
and then, to look into the apartments we passed. 

“Here’s a rahm,” he said, at last, flinging back a cranky board 
on hinges. “It’s weel eneugh to ate a few porridge in. There’s 
a pack o’ corn i’t’ corner, thear, meeterly clane; if ye’re feared o’ 
muckying yer grand silk does, spread yer hankerchir o’ t’ top 
on’t.” 

The “rahm” was a kind of lumber-hole smelling strong of malt 
and grain; various sacks of which articles were piled around, leaving 
a wide, bare space in the middle. 

“Why, man!” I exclaimed, facing him angrily, “this is not a 
place to sleep in. I wish to see my bed-room.” 

“ Bed-rume /” he repeated, in a tone of mockery. “Yah’s see 
all t’ bed-rumes thear is — yon’s mine.” 

He pointed into the second garret, only differing from the first 
in being more naked about the walls, and having a large low, 
curtainless bed, with an indigo-coloured quilt at one end. 

HQ 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“What do I want with yours?” I retorted. “I suppose Mr 
Heathcliff does not lodge at the top of the house, does he?” 

“Oh! it’s Maister Hathecliff’s ye’re wanting!” cried he, as if 
making a new discovery. “Couldn’t ye ha’ said soa, at onst? un 
then, I mud ha’ telled ye, baht all this wark, that that’s just one ye 
cannut see — he alias keeps it locked, un nob’dy iver mells on’t but 
hisseln.” 

“You’ve a nice house, Joseph,” I could not refrain from ob¬ 
serving, “and pleasant inmates; and I think the concentrated 
essence of all the madness in the world took up its abode in my 
brain the day I linked my fate with theirs! However, that is not 
to the present purpose — there are other rooms. For heaven’s sake 
be quick, and let me settle somewhere!” 

He made no reply to this adjuration; only plodding doggedly 
down the wooden steps, and halting before an apartment which, 
from that halt and the superior quality of its furniture, I conjectured 
to be the best one. There was a carpet: a good one, but the pattern 
was obliterated by dust; a fireplace hung with cut paper, dropping 
to pieces; a handsome oak bedstead with ample crimson curtains 
of rather expensive material and modern make; but they had 
evidently experienced rough usage: the valances hung in festoons, 
wrenched from their rings, and the iron rod supporting them was 
bent in an. arc on one side, causing the drapery to trail upon the 
floor. The chairs were also damaged, many of them severely; and 
deep indentations deformed the panels of the walls. I w r as en¬ 
deavouring to gather resolution for entering and taking possession, 
when my fool of a guide announced, “This here is t’ maister’s.” 
My supper by this time was cold, my appetite gone, and my patience 
exhausted. I insisted on being provided instantly with a place of 
refuge, and means of repose. 

“ Whear the divil ? ” began the religious elder. “ The Lord bless 
us! The Lord forgie us! Whear the hell wold ye gang ? ye 
marred, wearisome nowt! Ye’ve seen all but Hareton’s bit of a 
cham’er. There’s not another hoile to lig down in i’ th’ hahse!” 

I was so vexed, I flung my tray and its contents on the ground; 
and then seated myself at the stairs-head, hid my face in my hands, 
and cried. 

“Ech! ech!” exclaimed Joseph. “Weel done, Miss Cathy! 
weel done, Miss Cathy! Howsiver, t’ maister sail just tum’le o’er 
them brocken pots; un’ then we’s hear summut; we’s hear how 


120 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


it’s to be. Gooid-for-naught madling! ye desarve pining fro’ this 
to Churstmas, flinging t’ precious gifts o’ God under fooit i’ yer 
flaysome rages 1 But, I’m mista’en if ye show yer sperrit lang. 
Will Hathecliff bide sich bonny ways, think ye? I nobbut wish 
he may catch ye i’ that plisky. I nobbut wish he may.” 

And so he went on scolding to his den beneath, taking the candle 
with him; and I remained in the dark. The period of reflection 
succeeding this silly action, compelled me to admit the necessity 
of smothering my pride and choking my wrath, and bestirring my¬ 
self to remove its effects. An unexpected aid presently appeared 
in the shape of Throttler, whom I now recognised as a son of our 
old Skulker: it had spent its whelphood at the Grange, and was 
given by my father to Mr Hindley. I fancy it knew me: it pushed 
its nose against mine by way of salute, and then hastened to devour 
the porridge; while I groped from step to step, collecting the 
shattered earthenware, and drying the spatters of milk from the 
banister with my pocket-handkerchief. Our labours were scarcely 
over when I heard Earnshaw’s tread in the passage; my assistant 
tucked in his tail, and pressed to the wall; I stole into the nearest 
doorway. The dog’s endeavour to avoid him was unsuccessful; as 
I guessed by a scutter downstairs, and a prolonged, piteous yelping. 
I had better luck! he passed on, entered his chamber, and shut 
the door. Directly after Joseph came up with Hareton, to put him 
to bed. I had found shelter in Hareton’s room, and the old man, 
on seeing me, said — 

“They’s rahm for boath ye un yer pride, now, I sud think, i’ the 
hahse. It’s empty; ye may hev it all to yerseln, un Him as alias 
maks a third, i’ sich ill company 1” 

Gladly did I take advantage of this intimation; and the minute 
I flung myself into a chair, by the fire, I nodded, and slept. My 
slumber was deep and sweet, though over far too soon. Mr Heath- 
cliff awoke me; he had just come in, and demanded, in his loving 
manner, what I was doing there? I told him the cause of my 
staying up so late — that he had the key of our room in his pocket. 
The adjective out gave mortal offence. He swore it was not, nor 
ever should be, mine; and he’d — But I’ll not repeat his language, 
nor describe his habitual conduct: he is ingenious and unresting 
in seeking to gain my abhorrence! I sometimes wonder at him 
with an intensity that deadens my fear: yet, I assure you, a tiger 
or a venomous serpent could not rouse terror in me equal to that 

I 2 I 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


which he wakens. He told me of Catherine’s illness, and accused 
my brother of causing it; promising that I should be Edgar’s proxy 
in suffering, till he could get hold of him. 

I do hate him — I am wretched — I have been a fool! Beware 
of uttering one breath of this to anyone at the Grange. I shall 
expect you every day — don’t disappoint me! 

Isabella. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A S soon as I had perused this epistle, I went to the master, 
and informed him that his sister had arrived at the Heights, 
and sent me a letter expressing her sorrow for Mrs Linton’s situa¬ 
tion, and her ardent desire to see him; with a wish that he would 
transmit to her, as early as possible, some token of forgiveness by 
me. 

“Forgiveness!” said Linton. “I have nothing to forgive her, 
Ellen. You may call at Wuthering Heights this afternoon, if you 
like, and say that I am not angry, but I’m sorry to have lost her; 
especially as I can never think she’ll be happy. It is out of the 
question my going to see her, however: we are eternally divided; 
and should she really wish to oblige me, let her persuade the villain 
she has married to leave the country.” 

“And you won’t write her a little note, sir?” I asked imploringly. 
“No,” he answered. “It is needless. My communication with 
Heathcliff’s family shall be as sparing as his with mine. It shall 
not exist!” 

Mr Edgar’s coldness depressed me exceedingly; and all the way 
from the Grange I puzzled my brains how to put more heart into 
what he said, when I repeated it; and how to soften his refusal 
of even a few lines to console Isabella. I daresay she had been 
on the watch for me since morning: I saw her looking through 
the lattice, as I came up the garden causeway, and I nodded to 
her; but she drew back, as if afraid of being observed. I entered 
without knocking. There never was such a dreary, dismal scene as 
the formerly cheerful house presented! I must confess, that if I 
had been in the young lady’s place, I would, at least, have swept 
the hearth, and wiped the tables with a duster. But she already 
partook of the pervading spirit of neglect which encompassed her. 

122 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Her pretty face was wan and listless; her hair uncurled: some 
locks hanging lankly down, and some carelessly twisted round her 
head. Probably she had not touched her dress since yester evening. 
Hindley was not there. Mr Heathcliff sat at a table, turning over 
some papers in his pocket-book; but he rose when I appeared, 
asked me how I did, quite friendly, and offered me a chair. He 
was the only thing there that seemed decent: and I thought he 
never looked better. So much had circumstances altered their 
positions, that he would certainly have struck a stranger as a born 
and bred gentleman; and his wife as a thorough little slattern! 
She came forward eagerly to greet me; and held out one hand to 
take the expected letter. I shook my head. She wouldn’t under¬ 
stand the hint, but followed me to a sideboard, where I went to lay 
my bonnet, and importuned me in a whisper to give her directly 
what I had brought. Heathcliff guessed the meaning of her 
manoeuvres, and said — 

“If you have got anything for Isabella (as no doubt you have, 
Nelly), give it to her. You needn’t make a secret of it! we have 
no secrets between us.” 

“Oh, I have nothing,” I replied, thinking it best to speak the 
truth at once. “My master bid me tell his sister that she must not 
expect either a letter or a visit from him at present. He sends his 
love, ma’am, and his wishes for your happiness, and his pardon for 
the grief you have occasioned; but he thinks that after this time, 
his household and the household here should drop intercommunica¬ 
tion, as nothing could come of keeping it up.” 

Mrs Heathcliff’s lip quivered slightly, and she returned to her 
seat in the window. Her husband took his stand on the hearth¬ 
stone, near me, and began to put questions concerning Catherine. 
I told him as much as I thought proper of her illness, and he ex¬ 
torted from me, by cross-examination, most of the facts connected 
with its origin. I blamed her, as she deserved, for bringing it all 
on herself; and ended by hoping that he would follow Mr Linton’s 
example and avoid future interference with his family, for good or 
evil. 

“Mrs Linton is now just recovering,” I said; “she’ll never be 
like she was, but her life is spared; and if you really have a regard 
for her, you’ll shun crossing her way again: nay, you’ll move out 
of this country entirely; and that you may not regret it, I’ll inform 
you Catherine Linton is as different now from your old friend 

123 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Catherine Earnshaw, as that young lady is different from me. Her 
appearance is changed greatly, her character much more so; and 
the person who is compelled, of necessity, to be her companion, will 
only sustain his affection hereafter by the remembrance of what 
she once was, by common humanity, and a sense of duty!” 

“That is quite possible,” remarked Heathcliff, forcing himself to 
seem calm: “quite possible that your master should have nothing 
but common humanity and a sense of duty to fall back upon. But 
do you imagine that I shall leave Catherine to his duty and hu¬ 
manity ? and can you compare my feelings respecting Catherine to 
his? Before you leave this house, I must exact a promise from 
you, that you’ll get me an interview with her: consent or refuse, I 
will see her! What do you say?” 

“I say, Mr Heathcliff,” I replied, “you must not: you never 
shall, through my means. Another encounter between you and 
the master would kill her altogether.” 

“With your aid, that may be avoided,” he continued; “and 
should there be danger of such an event — should he be the cause 
of adding a single trouble more to her existence — why, I think I 
shall be justified in going to extremes! I wish you had sincerity 
enough to tell me whether Catherine would suffer greatly from his 
loss: the fear that she would restrains me. And there you see the 
distinctions between our feelings: had he been in my place, and I 
in his, though I hated him with a hatred that turned my life to gall, 
I never would have raised a hand against him. You may look 
incredulous, if you please! I never would have banished him 
from her society as long as she desired his. The moment her regard 
ceased, I would have torn his heart out, and drunk his blood ! But, 
till then — if you don’t believe me, you don’t know me — till then, 
I would have died by inches before I touched a single hair of his 
head!” 

“And yet,” I interrupted, “you have no scruples in completely 
ruining all hopes of her perfect restoration, by thrusting yourself 
into her remembrance now, when she has nearly forgotten you, and 
involving her in a new tumult of discord and distress.” 

“You suppose she has nearly forgotten me?” he said. “Oh, 
Nelly! you know she has not! You know as well as I do, that for 
every thought she spends on Linton, she spends a thousand on me! 
At a most miserable period of my life, I had a notion of the kind: 
it haunted me on my return to the neighbourhood last summer; 

124 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


but only her own assurance could make me admit the horrible idea 
again. And then, Linton would be nothing, nor Hindley, nor all 
the dreams that ever I dreamt. Two words would comprehend my 
future death and hell: existence, after losing her, would be hell. 
Yet I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she valued Edgar 
Linton’s attachment more than mine. If he loved with all the 
powers of his puny being, he couldn’t love as much in eighty years 
as I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have: 
the sea could be as readily contained in that horse-trough, as her 
whole affection be monopolised by him ! Tush! He is scarcely a 
degree dearer to her than her dog, or her horse. It is not in him 
to be loved like me: how can she love in him what he has not?” 

“Catherine and Edgar are as fond of each other as any two 
people can be,” cried Isabella, with sudden vivacity. “No one 
has a right to talk in that manner, and I won’t hear my brother 
deprecated in silence!” 

“Your brother is wondrous fond of you too, isn’t he?” observed 
Heathcliff scornfully. “He turns you adrift on the world with 
surprising alacrity.” 

“He is not aware of what I suffer,” she replied. “I didn’t tell 
him that.” 

“You have been telling him something, then: you have written, 
have you ?” 

“To say that I was married, I did write — you saw the note.” 

“And nothing since?” 

“No.” 

“My young lady is looking sadly the worse for her change of 
condition,” I remarked. “ Somebody’s love comes short in her case, 
obviously: whose, I may guess; but, perhaps, I shouldn’t say.” 

“I should guess it was her own,” said Heathcliff. “She de¬ 
generates into a mere slut! She is tired of trying to please me un¬ 
commonly early. You’d hardly credit it, but the very morrow of 
our wedding, she was weeping to go home. However, she’ll suit 
this house so much the better for not being over nice, and I’ll take 
care she does not disgrace me by rambling abroad.” 

“Well, sir,” returned I, “I hope you’ll consider that Mrs Heath¬ 
cliff is accustomed to be looked after and waited on; and that she 
has been brought up like an only daughter, whom everyone was 
ready to serve. You must let her have a maid to keep things tidy 
about her, and you must treat her kindly. Whatever be your 

125 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


notion of Mr Edgar, you cannot doubt that she has a capacity for 
strong attachments, or she wouldn’t have abandoned the elegances, 
and comforts, and friends of her former home, to fix contentedly, in 
such a wilderness as this, with you.” 

“She abandoned them under a delusion,” he answered; “pictur¬ 
ing in me a hero of romance, and expecting unlimited indulgences 
from my chivalrous devotion. I can hardly regard her in the light 
of a rational creature, so obstinately has she persisted in forming a 
fabulous notion of my character and acting on the false impressions 
she cherished. But, at last, I think she begins to know me: I don’t 
perceive the silly smiles and grimaces that provoked me at first; 
and the senseless incapability of discerning that I was in earnest 
when I gave her my opinion of her infatuation and herself. It was 
a marvellous effort of perspicacity to discover that I did not love 
her. I believed, at one time, no lessons could teach her that! And 
yet it is poorly learnt; for this morning she announced, as a piece 
of appalling intelligence, that I had actually succeeded in making 
her hate me I A positive labour of Hercules, I assure you! If it 
be achieved, I have cause to return thanks. Can I trust your asser¬ 
tion, Isabella ? Are you sure you hate me ? If I let you alone for 
half a day, won’t you come sighing and wheedling to me again ? I 
daresay she would rather I had seemed all tenderness before you: 
it wounds her vanity to have the truth exposed. But I don’t care 
who knows that the passion was wholly on one side; and I never 
told her a lie about it. She cannot accuse me of showing one bit 
of deceitful softness. The first thing she saw me do, on coming 
out of the Grange, was to hang up her little dog; and when she 
pleaded for it, the first words I uttered were a wish that I had the 
hanging of every being belonging to her, except one: possibly she 
took that exception for herself. But no brutality disgusted her: I 
suppose she has an innate admiration of it, if only her precious 
person were secure from injury! Now, was it not the depth of 
absurdity — of genuine idiocy, for that pitiful, slavish, mean-minded 
brach to dream that I could love her? Tell your master, Nelly, 
that I never, in all my life, met with such an abject thing as she is. 
She even disgraces the name of Linton; and I’ve sometimes re¬ 
lented, from pure lack of invention, in my experiments on what 
she could endure, and still creep shamefully cringing back! But 
tell him, also, to set his fraternal and magisterial heart at ease: 
that I keep strictly within the limits of the law. I have avoided, 

126 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


up to this period, giving her the slightest right to claim a separation; 
and, what’s more, she’d thank nobody for dividing us. If she de¬ 
sired to go, she might: the nuisance of her presence outweighs the 
gratification to be derived from tormenting her! ” 

“Mr Heathcliff,” said I, “this is the talk of a madman; your 
wife, most likely, is convinced you are mad; and, for that reason, 
she has borne with you hitherto: but now that you say she may go, 
she’ll doubtless avail herself of the permission. You are not so 
bewitched, ma’am, are you, as to remain with him of your own 
accord ?” 

“Take care, Ellen!” answered Isabella, her eyes sparkling ire- 
fully; there was no misdoubting by their expression the full success 
of her partner’s endeavours to make himself detested. “Don’t put 
faith in a single word he speaks. He’s a lying fiend! a monster, 
and not a human being ! I’ve been told I might leave him before; 
and I’ve made the attempt, but I dare not repeat it! Only, Ellen, 
promise you’ll not mention a syllable of his infamous conversation 
to my brother or Catherine. Whatever he may pretend, he wishes 
to provoke Edgar to desperation: he says he has married me on 
purpose to obtain power over him; and he shan’t obtain it — I’ll 
die first! I just hope, I pray, that he may forget his diabolical 
prudence and kill me! The single pleasure I can imagine is to 
die or see him dead ! ” 

“There — that will do for the present!” said Heathcliff. “If 
you are called upon in a court of law, you’ll remember her language, 
Nelly ! And take a good look at that countenance: she’s near the 
point which would suit me. No; you’re not fit to be your own 
guardian, Isabella, now; and I, being your legal protector, must 
detain you in my custody, however distasteful the obligation may be. 
Go upstairs; I have something to say to Ellen Dean in private. 
That’s not the way: upstairs, I tell you! Why, this is the road up¬ 
stairs, child! ” 

He seized, and thrust her from the room; and returned mutter¬ 
ing— 

“I have no pity! I have no pity! The more the worms writhe, 
the more I yearn to crush out their entrails! It is a moral teeth¬ 
ing; and I grind with greater energy, in proportion to the increase 
of pain.” 

“ Do you understand what the word pity means ?” I said, hastening 
to resume my bonnet. “ Did you ever feel a touch of it in your life ? ” 

127 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Put that down!” he interrupted, perceiving my intention to 
depart. “You are not going yet. Come here now, Nelly: I must 
either persuade or compel you to aid me in fulfilling my determina¬ 
tion to see Catherine, and that without delay. I swear that I 
meditate no harm: I don’t desire to cause any disturbance, or to 
exasperate or insult Mr Linton; I only wish to hear from herself 
how she is, and why she has been ill; and to ask if anything that 
I could do would be of use to her. Last night, I was in the Grange 
garden six hours, and I’ll return there to-night; and every night 
I’ll haunt the place, and every day, till I find an opportunity of 
entering. If Edgar Linton meets me, I shall not hesitate to knock 
him down, and give him enough to insure his quiescence while I 
stay. If his servants oppose me, I shall threaten them off with 
these pistols. But wouldn’t it be better to prevent my coming in 
contact with them, or their master ? And you could do it so easily. 
I’d warn you when I came, and then you might let me in unobserved, 
as soon as she was alone, and watch till I departed, your conscience 
quite calm: you would be hindering mischief.” 

I protested against playing that treacherous part in my employer’s 
house: and, besides, I urged the cruelty and selfishness of his 
destroying Mrs Linton’s tranquillity for his satisfaction. “The 
commonest occurrence startles her painfully,” I said. “She’s all 
nerves, and she couldn’t bear the surprise, I’m positive. Don’t 
persist, sir! or else, I shall be obliged to inform my master of your 
designs; and he’ll take measures to secure his house and its in¬ 
mates from any such unwarrantable intrusions ! ” 

“In that case, I’ll take measures to secure you, woman!” ex¬ 
claimed Heathcliff; “you shall not leave Wuthering Heights till 
to-morrow morning. It is a foolish story to assert that Catherine 
could not bear to see me; and as to surprising her, I don’t desire 
it: you must prepare her — ask her if I may come. You say she 
never mentions my name, and that I am never mentioned to her. 
To whom should she mention me if I am a forbidden topic in the 
house? She thinks you are all spies for her husband. Oh, I’ve 
no doubt she’s in hell among you ! I guess by her silence, as much 
as anything, what she feels. You say she is often restless, and 
anxious-looking: is that a proof of tranquillity? You talk of her 
mind being unsettled. How the devil could it be otherwise in her 
frightful isolation ? And that insipid, paltry creature attending her 
from duty and humanity! From pity and charity! He might as 

128 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


well plant an oak in a flower-pot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine 
he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares! Let 
us settle it at once: will you stay here, and am I to fight my way to 
Catherine over Linton and his footman ? Or will you be my friend, 
as you have been hitherto, and do what I request ? Decide! be¬ 
cause there is no reason for my lingering another minute, if you 
persist in your stubborn ill-nature!” 

Well, Mr Lockwood, I argued and complained, and flatly refused 
him fifty times; but in the long run he forced me to an agreement. 
I engaged to carry a letter from him to my mistress; and should she 
consent, I promised to let him have intelligence of Linton’s next 
absence from home, when he might come, and get in as he was 
able: I wouldn’t be there, and my fellow-servants should be equally 
out of the way. Was it right or wrong ? I fear it was wrong, though 
expedient. I thought I prevented another explosion by my com¬ 
pliance; and I thought, too, it might create a favourable crisis in 
Catherine’s mental illness: and then I remembered Mr Edgar’s stern 
rebuke of my carrying tales; and I tried to smooth away all dis¬ 
quietude on the subject, by affirming, with frequent iteration, that 
that betrayal of trust, if it merited so harsh an appellation, should 
be the last. Notwithstanding, my journey homeward was sadder 
than my journey thither; and many misgivings I had, ere I could 
prevail on myself to put the missive into Mrs Linton’s hand. 

But here is Kenneth; I’ll go down, and tell him how much better 
you are. My history, is dree, as we say, and will serve to while away 
another morning. 

Dree, and dreary! I reflected as the good woman descended to 
receive the doctor; and not exactly of the kind which I should have 
chosen to amuse me. But never mind! I’ll extract wholesome 
medicines from Mrs Dean’s bitter herbs; and firstly, let me beware 
the fascination that lurks in Catherine Heathcliff’s brilliant eyes. 
I should be in a curious taking if I surrendered my heart to that 
young person, and the daughter turned out a second edition of the 
mother! 


i 


129 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


CHAPTER XV. 

A NOTHER week over — and I am so many days nearer 
health, and spring! I have now heard all my neighbour’s 
history, at different sittings, as the housekeeper could spare time 
from more important occupations. I’ll continue it in her own 
words, only a little condensed. She is, on the whole, a very fair 
narrator, and I don’t think I could improve her style. 

In the evening, she said, the evening of my visit to the Heights, 
I knew, as well as if I saw him, that Mr Heathcliff was about the 
place; and I shunned going out, because I still carried his letter 
in my pocket, and didn’t want to be threatened or teased any more. 
I had made up my mind not to give it till my master went some¬ 
where, as I could not guess how its receipt would affect Catherine. 
The consequence was, that it did not reach her before the lapse of 
three days. The fourth was Sunday, and I brought it into her room 
after the family were gone to church. There was a man-servant 
left to keep the house with me, and we generally made a practice 
of locking the doors during the hours of service; but on that occa¬ 
sion the weather was so warm and pleasant that I set them wide 
open, and, to fulfil my engagement, as I knew who would be coming, 
I told my companion that the mistress wished very much for some 
oranges, and he must run over to the village and get a few, to be 
paid for on the morrow. He departed, and I went upstairs. 

Mrs Linton sat in a loose, white dress, with a light shawl over 
her shoulders, in the recess of the open window, as usual. Her 
thick, long hair had been partly removed at the beginning of her 
illness, and now she wore it simply combed in its natural tresses 
over her temples and neck. Her appearance was altered, as I had 
told Heathcliff; but when she was calm, there seemed unearthly beauty 
in the change. The flash of her eyes had been succeeded by a 
dreamy and melancholy softness; they no longer gave the impres¬ 
sion of looking at the objects around her: they appeared always 
to gaze beyond, and far beyond — you would have said out of this 
world. Then the paleness of her face — its haggard aspect having 
vanished as she recovered flesh — and the peculiar expression arising 
from her mental state, though painfully suggestive of their causes, 
added to the touching interest which she awakened; and — in¬ 
variably to me, I know, and to any person who saw her, I should 

130 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


think — refuted more tangible proofs of convalescence, and 
stamped her as one doomed to decay. 

A book lay spread on the sill before her, and the scarcely per¬ 
ceptible wind fluttered its leaves at intervals. I believe Linton had 
laid it there: for she never endeavoured to divert herself with read¬ 
ing, or occupation of any kind, and he would spend many an hour 
in trying to entice her attention to some subject which had formerly 
been her amusement. She was conscious of his aim, and in her 
better moods endured his efforts placidly, only showing their use¬ 
lessness by now and then suppressing a wearied sigh, and checking 
him at last with the saddest of smiles and kisses. At other times, 
she would turn petulantly away, and hide her face in her hands, or 
even push him off angrily; and then he took care to let her alone, 
for he was certain of doing no good. 

Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing; and the full, mellow 
flow of the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was 
a sweet substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, 
which drowned that music about the Grange when the trees were 
in leaf. At Wuthering Heights it always sounded on quiet days 
following a great thaw or a season of steady rain. And of Wuther¬ 
ing Heights Catherine was thinking as she listened: that is, if she 
thought or listened at all; but she had the vague, distant look I 
mentioned before, which expressed no recognition of material things 
either by ear or eye. 

“There’s a letter for you, Mrs Linton,” I said, gently inserting 
it in one hand that rested on her knee. “You must read it im¬ 
mediately, because it wants an answer. Shall I break the seal?” 
“Yes,” she answered, without altering the direction of her eyes. 
I opened it — it was very short. “Now,” I continued, “read it.” 
She drew away her hand, and let it fall. I replaced it in her lap, 
and stood waiting till it should please her to glance down; but 
that movement was so long delayed that at last I resumed — 

“Must I read it, ma’am? It is from Mr Heathcliff.” 

There was a start and a troubled gleam of recollection, and a 
struggle to arrange her ideas. She lifted the letter, and seemed to 
peruse it; and when she came to the signature she sighed: yet still 
I found she had not gathered its import, for, upon my desiring to 
hear her reply, she merely pointed to the name, and gazed at me 
with mournful and questioning eagerness. 

“Well, he wishes to see you,” said I, guessing her need of an 

I 3 I 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


interpreter. “He’s in the garden by this time, and impatient to 
know what answer I shall bring.” 

As I spoke, I observed a large dog lying on the sunny grass be¬ 
neath raise its ears as if about to bark, and then smoothing them 
back, announce, by a wag of the tail, that someone approached 
whom it did not consider a stranger. Mrs Linton bent forward, 
and listened breathlessly. The minute after a step traversed the 
hall; the open house was too tempting for Heathcliff to resist walk¬ 
ing in: most likely he supposed that I was inclined to shirk my 
promise, and so resolved to trust to his own audacity. With strain¬ 
ing eagerness Catherine gazed towards the entrance of her chamber. 
He did not hit the right room directly, she motioned me to admit 
him, but he found it out ere I could reach the door, and in a stride 
or two was at her side, and had her grasped in his arms. 

He neither spoke nor loosed his hold for some five minutes, dur¬ 
ing which period he bestowed more kisses than ever he gave in his 
life before, I daresay: but then my mistress had kissed him first, 
and I plainly saw that he could hardly bear, for downright agony, 
to look into her face! The same conviction had stricken him as 
me, from the instant he beheld her, that there was no prospect of 
ultimate recovery there — she was fated, sure to die. 

“Oh, Cathy! Oh, my life! how can I bear it?” was the first 
sentence he uttered, in a tone that did not seek to disguise his de¬ 
spair. And now he stared at her so earnestly that I thought the very 
intensity of his gaze would bring tears into his eyes; but they burned 
with anguish: they did not melt. 

“What now?” said Catherine, leaning back, and returning his 
look with a suddenly clouded brow: her humour was a mere vane 
for constantly varying caprices. “You and Edgar have broken 
my heart, Heathcliff! And you both came to bewail the deed to 
me, as if you were the people to be pitied ! I shall not pity you, not 
I. You have killed me — and thriven on it, I think. How strong 
you are ! How many years do you mean to live after I am gone ?” 

Heathcliff had knelt on one knee to embrace her; he attempted 
to rise, but she seized his hair, and kept him down. 

“I wish I could hold you,” she continued bitterly, “till we were 
both dead! I shouldn’t care what you suffered. I care nothing 
for your sufferings. Why shouldn’t you suffer? I do! Will you 
forget me ? Will you be happy when I am in the earth ? Will you 
say twenty years hence, ‘That’s the grave of Catherine Earnshaw. 

132 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


I loved her long ago, and was wretched to lose her; but it is past. 
I’ve loved many others since: my children are dearer to me than she 
was; and at death, I shall not rejoice that I am going to her: I 
shall be sorry that I must leave them ! 9 Will you say so, Heath- 
cliff?” 

“Don’t torture me till I am as mad as yourself,” cried he, wrench¬ 
ing his head free, and grinding his teeth. 

The two, to a cool spectator, made a strange and fearful picture. 
Well might Catherine deem that heaven would be a land of exile to 
her, unless with her mortal body she cast away her moral character 
also. Her present countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its 
white cheek, and a bloodless lip and scintillating eye; and she re¬ 
tained in her closed fingers a portion of the locks she had been grasp¬ 
ing. As to her companion, while raising himself with one hand, he 
had taken her arm with the other; and so inadequate was his stock 
of gentleness to the requirements of her condition, that on his let¬ 
ting go I saw four distinct impressions left blue in the colourless 
skin. 

“Are you possessed with a devil,” he pursued savagely, “to talk 
in that manner to me when you are dying ? Do you reflect that all 
those words will be branded on my memory, and eating deeper 
eternally after you have left me? You know you lie to say I have 
killed you: and, Catherine, you know that I could as soon forget 
you as my existence! Is it not sufficient for your infernal selfish¬ 
ness, that while you are at peace I shall writhe in the torments of 
hell?” 

“I shall not be at peace,” moaned Catherine, recalled to a sense 
of physical weakness by the violent, unequal throbbing of her heart, 
which beat visibly and audibly under this excess of agitation. She 
said nothing further till the paroxysm was over; then she continued, 
more kindly — 

“I’m not wishing you greater torment than I have, Heathcliff. 
I only wish us never to be parted: and should a word of mine dis¬ 
tress you hereafter, think I feel the same distress underground, and 
for my own sake, forgive me! Come here and kneel down again ! 
You never harmed me in your life. Nay, if you nurse anger, that 
will be worse tc remember than my harsh words! Won’t you 
come here again ? Do ! ” 

Heathcliff went to the back of her chair, and leant over, but not so 
far as to let her see his face, which was livid with emotion. She bent 

133 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


round to look at him; he would not permit it: turning abruptly, he 
walked to the fire-place, where he stood, silent, with his back towards 
us. Mrs Linton’s glance followed him suspiciously: every move¬ 
ment woke a new sentiment in her. After a pause and a prolonged 
gaze, she resumed; addressing me in accents of indignant disap¬ 
pointment — 

“Oh, you see, Nelly, he would not relent a moment to keep me 
out of the grave. That is how I’m loved! Well, never mind. 
That is not my Heathcliff. I shall love mine yet; and take him 
with me: he’s in my soul. And,” added she, musingly, “the thing 
that irks me most is this shattered prison, after all. I’m tired of 
being enclosed here. I’m wearying to escape into that glorious 
world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, 
and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart; but really 
with it, and in it. Nelly, you think you are better and more fortu¬ 
nate than I; in full health and strength: you are sorry for me — 
very soon that will be altered. I shall be sorry for you. I shall be 
incomparably beyond and above you all. I wonder he won’t be 
near me!” She went on to herself. “I thought he wished it. 
Heathcliff, dear! you should not be sullen now. Do come to me, 
Heathcliff.” 

In her eagerness she rose and supported herself on the arm of the 
chair. At that earnest appeal he turned to her, looking absolutely 
desperate. His eyes, wide and wet, at last flashed fiercely on her; 
his breast heaved convulsively. An instant they held asunder, and 
then how they met I hardly saw, but Catherine made a spring, and 
he caught her, and they were locked in an embrace from which I 
thought my mistress would never be released alive: in fact, to my 
eyes, she seemed directly insensible. He flung himself into the 
nearest seat, and on my approaching hurriedly to ascertain if she 
had fainted, he gnashed at me, and foamed like a mad dog, and 
gathered her to him with greedy jealousy. I did not feel as if I 
were in the company of a creature of my own species: it appeared 
that he would not understand, though I spoke to him; so I stood 
off, and held my tongue, in great perplexity. 

A movement of Catherine’s relieved me a little presently: she 
put up her hand to clasp his neck, and bring her cheek to his as he 
held her; while he, in return, covering her with frantic caresses, 
said wildly — 

“You teach me now how cruel you’ve been — cruel and false. Why 

1 34 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


did you despise me ? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy ? 
I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have 
killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my 
kisses and tears: they’ll blight you — they’ll damn you. You loved 
me then what Tight had you to leave me ? What right — answer 
me the poor fancy you felt for Linton ? Because misery and 

degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict 
would have parted us, you , of your own will, did it. I have not 
broken your heart — you have broken it; and in breaking it, you 
have broken mine. So much the worse for me, that I am strong. 
Do I want to live ? What kind of living will it be when you — oh, 
God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?” 

“Let me alone. Let me alone,” sobbed Catherine. “If I have 
done wrong, I’m dying for it. It is enough ! You left me too: but 
I won’t upbraid you! I forgive you. Forgive me ! ” 

“It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those 
wasted hands,” he answered. “Kiss me again; and don’t let me 
see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my 
murderer — but yours ! How can I ? ” 

They were silent — their faces hid against each other, and washed 
by each other’s tears. At least, I suppose the weeping was on both 
sides; as it seemed Heathcliff could weep on a great occasion like 
this. 

I grew very uncomfortable, meanwhile; for the afternoon wore 
fast away, the man whom I had sent off returned from his errand, 
and I could distinguish, by the shine of the western sun up the val¬ 
ley, a concourse thickening outside Gimmerton chapel porch. 

‘‘Service is over,” I announced. “My master will be here in half- 
an-hour.” 

Heathcliff groaned a curse, and strained Catherine closer: she 
never moved. 

Ere long I perceived a group of the servants passing up the road 
towards the kitchen wing. Mr Linton was not far behind; he 
opened the gate himself and sauntered slowly up, probably enjoy¬ 
ing the lovely afternoon that breathed as soft as summer. 

“Now he is here,” I exclaimed. “For Heaven’s sake, hurry 
down! You’ll not meet anyone on the front stairs. Do be quick; 
and stay among the trees till he is fairly in.” 

“I must go, Cathy,” said Heathcliff, seeking to extricate himself 
from his companion’s arms. “But if I live, I’ll see you again 

135 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


before you are asleep. I won’t stray five yards from your 
window.” 

“You must not go!” she answered, holding him as firmly as her 
strength allowed. “You shall not, I tell you.” 

“For one hour,” he pleaded earnestly. 

“Not for one minute,” she replied. 

“I must — Linton will be up immediately,” persisted the alarmed 
intruder. 

He would have risen, and unfixed her fingers by the act — she 
clung fast, gasping: there was mad resolution in her face. 

“No !” she shrieked. “Oh, don’t, don’t go. It is the last time ! 
Edgar will not hurt us. Heathcliff, I shall die ! I shall die !” 

“Damn the fool! There he is,” cried Heathcliff, sinking back 
into his seat. “Hush, my darling! Hush, hush, Catherine! I’ll 
stay. If he shot me so, I’d expire with a blessing on my lips.” 

And there they were fast again. I heard my master mounting 
the stairs — the cold sweat ran from my forehead: I was horrified. 

“Are you going to listen to her ravings?” I said passionately. 
“She does not know what she says. Will you ruin her, because she 
has not wit to help herself? Get up! You could be free in¬ 
stantly. That is the most diabolical deed that ever you did. We 
are all done for — master, mistress, and servant.” 

I wrung my hands, and cried out; and Mr Linton hastened his 
step at the noise. In the midst of my agitation, I was sincerely 
glad to observe that Catherine’s arms had fallen relaxed, and her 
head hung down. 

“She’s fainted or dead,” I thought: “so much the better. Far 
better that she should be dead, than lingering a burden and a misery- 
maker to all about her.” 

Edgar sprang to his unbidden guest, blanched with astonishment 
and rage. What he meant to do, I cannot tell; however, the other 
stopped all demonstrations, at once, by placing the lifeless-looking 
form in his arms. 

“Look there !” he said; “unless you be a fiend, help her first — 
then you shall speak to me! ” 

He walked into the parlour, and sat down. Mr Linton summoned 
me, and with great difficulty, and after resorting to many means, we 
managed to restore her to sensation; but she was all bewildered; 
she sighed, and moaned, and knew nobody. Edgar, in his anxiety 
for her, forgot her hated friend. I did not. I went, at the earliest 

136 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


opportunity, and besought him to depart; affirming that Catherine 
was better, and he should hear from me in the morning how she 
passed the night. 

“I shall not refuse to go out of doors,” he answered; “but I shall 
stay in the garden: and, Nelly, mind you keep your word to-morrow. 
I shall be under those larch trees. Mind! or I pay another visit, 
whether Linton be in or not.” 

He sent a rapid glance through the half-open door of the chamber, 
and, ascertaining that what I stated was apparently true, delivered 
the house of his luckless presence. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A BOUT twelve o’clock that night, was born the Catherine you 
saw at Wuthering Heights: a puny, seven months’ child; 
and two hours after the mother died, having never recovered suffi¬ 
cient consciousness to miss Heathcliff, or know Edgar. The latter’s 
distraction at his bereavement is a subject too painful to be dwelt 
on; its after effects showed how deep the sorrow sunk. A great 
addition, in my eyes, was his being left without an heir. I be¬ 
moaned that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan; and I mentally abused 
old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the securing his 
estate to his own daughter, instead of his son’s. An unwelcomed 
infant it was, poor thing! It might have wailed out of life, and 
nobody cared a morsel, during those first hours of existence. We 
redeemed the neglect afterwards; but its beginning was as friend¬ 
less as its end is likely to be. 

Next morning — bright and cheerful out of doors — stole soft¬ 
ened in through the blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch 
and its occupant with a mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton had 
his head laid on the pillow, and his eyes shut. His young and fair 
features were almost as deathlike as those of the form beside him, 
and almost as fixed: but his was the hush of exhausted anguish, 
and hers of perfect peace. Her brow smooth, her lids closed, her 
lips wearing the expression of a smile; no angel in heaven could be 
more beautiful than she appeared. And I partook of the infinite 
calm in which she lay: my mind was never in a holier frame than 

137 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


while I gazed on that untroubled image of Divine rest. I instinc¬ 
tively echoed the words she had uttered a few hours before: “In¬ 
comparably beyond and above us all! Whether still on earth or 
now in heaven, her spirit is at home with God! ” 

I don’t know if it be a peculiarity in me, but I am seldom other¬ 
wise than happy while watching in the chamber of death, should no 
frenzied or despairing mourner share the duty with me. I see a 
repose that neither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance 
of the endless and shadowless hereafter — the Eternity they have 
entered — where life is boundless in its duration, and love in its 
sympathy, and joy in its fulness. I noticed on that occasion how 
much selfishness there is even in a love like Mr Linton’s, when he 
so regretted Catherine’s blessed release! To be sure, one might 
have doubted, after the wayward and impatient existence she had 
led, whether she merited a haven of peace at last. One might doubt 
in seasons of cold reflection; but not then, in the presence of her 
corpse. It asserted its own tranquillity, which seemed a pledge of 
equal quiet to its former inhabitants. 

Do you believe such people are happy in the other world, sir? 
I’d give a great deal to know. 

I declined answering Mrs Dean’s question, which struck me as 
something heterodox. She proceeded — 

Retracing the course of Catherine Linton, I fear we have no right 
to think she is; but we’ll leave her with her Maker. 

The master looked asleep, and I ventured soon after sunrise to 
quit the room and steal out to the pure refreshing air. The ser¬ 
vants thought me gone to shake off the drowsiness of my protracted 
watch; in reality, my chief motive was seeing Mr Heathcliff. If he 
had remained among the larches all night, he would have heard 
nothing of the stir at the Grange; unless, perhaps, he might catch 
the gallop of the messenger going to Gimmerton. If he had come 
nearer, he would probably be aware, from the lights flitting to and 
fro, and the opening and shutting of the outer doors, that all was 
not right within. I wished, yet feared, to find him. I felt the ter¬ 
rible news must be told, and I longed to get it over; but how to do 
it, I did not know. He was there — at least a few yards further in 
the park; leant against an old ash tree, his hat off, and his hair 
soaked with the dew that had gathered on the budded branches, 
and fell pattering round him. He had been standing a long time in 
that position, for I saw a pair of ousels passing and repassing scarcely 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


three feet from him, busy in building their nest, and regarding his 
proximity no more than that of a piece of timber. They flew off at 
my approach, and he raised his eyes and spoke — 

“She’s dead !” he said; “ I’ve not waited for you to learn that. 
Put your handkerchief away — don’t snivel before me. Damn you 
all! she wants none of your tears ! ” 

I was weeping as much for him as her; we do sometimes pity 
creatures that have none of the feeling either for themselves or 
others. When I first looked into his face, I perceived that he had 
got intelligence of the catastrophe; and a foolish notion struck me 
that his heart was quelled and he prayed, because his lips moved 
and his gaze was bent on the ground. 

“Yes, she’s dead!” I answered, checking my sobs and drying 
my cheeks. “Gone to heaven, I hope; where we may, everyone, 
join her, if we take due warning and leave our evil ways to follow 
good! ” 

“Did she take due warning, then?” asked Heathcliff, attempting 
a sneer. “Did she die like a saint? Come, give me a true history 
of the event. How did ”- 

He endeavoured to pronounce the name, but could not manage 
it; and compressing his mouth he held a silent combat with his 
inward agony, defying, meanwhile, my sympathy with an unflinch¬ 
ing ferocious stare. “How did she die?” he resumed at last — 
fain, notwithstanding his hardihood, to have a support behind him; 
for, after the struggle, he trembled, in spite of himself, to his very 
finger-ends. 

“Poor wretch!” I thought; “you have a heart and nerves the 
same as your brother men ! Why should you be anxious to conceal 
them? Your pride cannot blind God! You tempt Him to wring 
them, till He forces a cry of humiliation.” 

“Quietly as a lamb !” I answered aloud. “She drew a sigh, and 
stretched herself, like a child reviving, and sinking again to sleep; 
and five minutes after I felt one little pulse at her heart, and nothing 
more! ” 

“And — did she ever mention me?” he asked, hesitating, as if 
he dreaded the answer to his question would introduce details that 
he could not bear to hear. 

“Her senses never returned; she recognised nobody from the 
time you left her,” I said. “She lies with a sweet smile on her face; 
and her latest ideas wandered back to pleasant early days. Her 

139 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


life closed in a gentle dream — may she wake as kindly in the other 
world!” 

“May she wake in torment!” he cried, with a frightful vehe¬ 
mence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of 
ungovernable passion. “Why, she’s a liar to the end! Where is 
she ? Not there — not in heaven — not perished — where ? Oh ! 
you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one 
prayer — I repeat it till my tongue stiffens — Catherine Earnshaw, 
may you not rest as long as I am living! You said I killed you — 
haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I be¬ 
lieve. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me 
always — take any form — drive me mad ! only do not leave me in 
this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God ! it is unutterable ! 
I cannot live without my life ! I cannot live without my soul!” 

He dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his 
eyes, howled, not like a man, but like a savage beast being goaded 
to death with knives and spears. I observed several splashes of 
blood about the bark of the tree, and his hand and forehead were 
both stained; probably the scene I witnessed was a repetition of 
others acted during the night. It hardly moved my compassion — 
it appalled me: still, I felt reluctant to quit him so. But the mo¬ 
ment he recollected himself enough to notice me watching, he thun¬ 
dered a command for me to go, and I obeyed. He was beyond my 
skill to quiet or console! 

Mrs Linton’s funeral was appointed to take place on the Friday 
following her decease; and till then her coffin remained uncovered, 
and strewn with flowers and scented leaves, in the great drawing¬ 
room. Linton spent his days and nights there, a sleepless guardian; 
and — a circumstance concealed from all but me — Heathcliff spent 
his nights, at least, outside, equally a stranger to repose. I held no 
communication with him; still, I was conscious of his design to 
enter, if he could; and on the Tuesday, a little after dark, when my 
master, from sheer fatigue, had been compelled to retire a couple 
of hours, I went and opened one of the windows; moved by his per¬ 
severance, to give him a chance of bestowing on the faded image of 
his idol one final adieu. He did not omit to avail himself of the op¬ 
portunity, cautiously and briefly: too cautiously to betray his pres¬ 
ence by the slightest noise. Indeed, I shouldn’t have discovered 
that he had been there, except for the disarrangement of the drapery 
about the corpse’s face, and for observing on the floor a curl of light 

140 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


hair, fastened with a silver thread; which, on examination, I ascer¬ 
tained to have been taken from a locket hung round Catherine’s 
neck. Heathcliff had opened the trinket and cast out its contents, 
replacing them by a black lock of his own. I twisted the two, and 
enclosed them together. 

Mr Earnshaw was, of course, invited to attend the remains of his 
sister to the grave; he sent no excuse, but he never came; so that, 
besides her husband, the mourners were wholly composed of tenants 
and servants. Isabella was not asked. 

The place of Catherine’s interment, to the surprise of the villagers, 
was neither in the chapel under the carved monument of the Lintons, 
nor yet by the tombs of her own relations, outside. It was dug on a 
green slope in a corner of the kirkyard, where the wall is so low that 
heath and bilberry plants have climbed over it from the moor; and 
peat mould almost buries it. Her husband lies in the same spot 
now; and they have each a simple headstone above, and a plain 
grey block at their feet, to mark the graves. 


CHAPTER XVII. 



HAT Friday made the last of our fine days for a month. In 


A the evening, the weather broke: the wind shifted from south 
to north-east, and brought rain first, and then sleet and snow. On 
the morrow one could hardly imagine that there had been three 
weeks of summer: the primroses and crocuses were hidden under 
wintry drifts; the larks were silent, the young leaves of the early 
trees smitten and blackened. And dreary, and chill, and dismal, 
that morrow did creep over! My master kept his room; I took 
possession of the lonely parlour, converting it into a nursery: and 
there I was, sitting with the moaning doll of a child laid on my knee; 
rocking it to and fro, and watching, meanwhile, the still driving 
flakes build up the uncurtained window, when the door opened, and 
some person entered, out of breath and laughing! My anger was 
greater than my astonishment for a minute. I supposed it one of 
the maids, and I cried — 

“Have done! How dare you show your giddiness here? What 
would Mr Linton say if he heard you?” 


141 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“ Excuse me!” answered a familiar voice; “but I know Edgar 
is in bed, and I cannot stop myself.” 

With that the speaker came forward to the fire, panting and hold¬ 
ing her hand to her side. 

“I have run the whole way from Wuthering Heights!” she con¬ 
tinued, after a pause; “except where I’ve flown. I couldn’t count 
the number of falls I’ve had. Oh, I’m aching all over! Don’t be 
alarmed! There shall be an explanation as soon as I can give it; 
only just have the goodness to step out and order the carriage to 
take me on to Gimmerton, and tell a servant to seek up a few 
clothes in my wardrobe.” 

The intruder was Mrs Heathcliff. She certainly seemed in no 
laughing predicament: her hair streamed on her shoulders, drip¬ 
ping with snow and water; she was dressed in the girlish dress she 
commonly wore, befitting her age more than her position: a low 
frock with short sleeves, and nothing on either head or neck. The 
frock was of light silk, and clung to her with wet, and her feet were 
protected merely by thin slippers; add to this a deep cut under one 
ear, which only the cold prevented from bleeding profusely, a white 
face scratched and bruised, and a frame hardly able to support it¬ 
self, through fatigue; and you may fancy my first fright was not 
much allayed when I had had leisure to examine her. 

“My dear young lady,” I exclaimed, “I’ll stir nowhere, and hear 
nothing, till you have removed every article of your clothes, and put 
on dry things; and certainly you shall not go to Gimmerton to¬ 
night, so it is needless to order the carriage.” 

“Certainly, I shall,” she said; “walking or riding: yet I’ve no 
objection to dress myself decently. And — ah, see how it flows 
down my neck now! The fire does make it smart.” 

She insisted on my fulfilling her directions, before she would let 
me touch her; and not till after the coachman had been instructed 
to get ready, and a maid set to pack up some necessary attire, did 
I obtain her consent for binding the wound and helping to change 
her garments. 

“Now, Ellen,” she said, when my task was finished and she was 
seated in an easy chair on the hearth, with a cup of tea before her, 
“you sit down opposite me, and put poor Catherine’s baby away: 
I don’t like to see it! You mustn’t think I care little for Catherine, 
because I behaved so foolishly on entering: I’ve cried, too, bitterly 
— yes, more than anyone else has reason to cry. We parted 

142 


un- 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


reconciled, you remember, and I shan’t forgive myself. But, for 
all that, I was not going to sympathise with him — the brute beast! 
Oh, give me the poker! This is the last thing of his I have about 
me:” she slipped the gold ring from her third finger, and threw it 
on the floor. “I’ll smash it!” she continued, striking it with child¬ 
ish spite, “and then I’ll burn it!” and she took and dropped the 
misused article among the coals. “There! he shall buy another, 
if he gets me back again. He’d be capable of coming to seek me, 
to tease Edgar. I dare not stay, lest that notion should possess his 
wicked head! And besides, Edgar has not been kind, has he ? 
And I won’t come suing for his assistance; nor will I bring him into 
more trouble. Necessity compelled me to seek shelter here; though, 
if I had not learned he was out of the way, I’d have halted at the 
kitchen, washed my face, warmed myself, got you to bring what I 
wanted, and departed again to anywhere out of the reach of my 
accursed — of that incarnate goblin ! Ah ! he was in such a fury! 
If he had caught me! It’s a pity Earnshaw is not his match in 
strength: I wouldn’t have run till I’d seen him all but demolished, 
had Hindley been able to do it! ” 

“Well, don’t talk so fast, miss !” I interrupted; “you’ll disorder 
the handkerchief I have tied round your face, and make the cut 
bleed again. Drink your tea, and take breath, and give over laugh¬ 
ing : laughter is sadly out of place under this roof, and in your con¬ 
dition !” 

“An undeniable truth,” she replied. “Listen to that child ! It 
maintains a constant wail — send it out of my hearing for an hour; 
I shan’t stay any longer.” 

I rang the bell, and committed it to a servant’s care; and then 
I inquired what had urged her to escape from Wuthering Heights 
in such an unlikely plight, and where she meant to go, as she re¬ 
fused remaining with us. 

“I ought, and I wish to remain,” answered she, “to cheer Edgar 
and take care of the baby, for two things, and because the Grange 
is my right home. But I tell you he wouldn’t let me! Do you 
think he could bear to see me grow fat and merry — could bear to 
think that we were tranquil, and not resolve on poisoning our com¬ 
fort? Now, I have the satisfaction of being sure that he detests 
me, to the point of its annoying him seriously to have me within ear¬ 
shot or eyesight: I notice, when I enter his presence, the muscles 
of his countenance are involuntarily distorted into an expression of 

143 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


hatred; partly arising from his knowledge of the good causes I have 
to feel that sentiment for him, and partly from original aversion. 
It is strong enough to make me feel pretty certain that he would 
not chase me over England, supposing I contrived a clear escape; 
and therefore I must get quite away. I’ve recovered from my first 
desire to be killed by him: I’d rather he’d kill himself! He has 
extinguished my love effectually, and so I’m at my ease. I can rec¬ 
ollect yet how I loved him; and can dimly imagine that I could 
still be loving him, if — no, no ! Even if he had doted on me, the 
devilish nature would have revealed its existence somehow. Cath¬ 
erine had an awfully perverted taste to esteem him so dearly, know¬ 
ing him so well. Monster! would that he could be blotted out of 
creation, and out of my memory!” 

“Hush, hush ! He’s a human being,” I said. “Be more chari¬ 
table : there are worse men than he is yet! ” 

“He’s not a human being,” she retorted; “and he has no claim 
on my charity. I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to 
death, and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen: 
and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for 
him: and I would not, though he groaned from this to his dying 
day, and wept tears of blood for Catherine! No, indeed, indeed, 
I wouldn’t!” And here Isabella began to cry; but, immediately 
dashing the water from her lashes, she recommenced. “You asked, 
what has driven me to flight at last ? I was compelled to attempt 
it, because I had succeeded in rousing his rage a pitch above his 
malignity. Pulling out the nerves with red-hot pincers requires 
more coolness than knocking on the head. He was worked up to 
forget the fiendish prudence he boasted of, and proceeded to mur¬ 
derous violence. I experienced pleasure in being able to exasperate 
him; the sense of pleasure woke my instinct of self-preservation, so 
I fairly broke free; and if ever I come into his hands again he is 
welcome to a signal revenge. 

“Yesterday, you know, Mr Earnshaw should have been at the 
funeral. He kept himself sober for the purpose — tolerably sober: 
not going to bed mad at six o’clock and getting up drunk at twelve. 
Consequently he rose, in suicidal low spirits, as fit for the church as 
for a dance; and instead, he sat down by the fire and swallowed gin 
or brandy by tumblerfuls. 

‘ ‘ Heathcliff — I shudder to name him ! has been a stranger in 
the house from last Sunday till to-day. Whether the angels have 

144 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


fed him, or his kin beneath, I cannot tell; but he has not eaten a 
meal with us for nearly a week. He has just come home at dawn, 
and gone upstairs to his chamber; locking himself in — as if any¬ 
body dreamt of coveting his company! There he has continued, 
praying like a Methodist: only the deity he implored in senseless 
dust and ashes; and God, when addressed, was curiously con¬ 
founded with his own black father! After concluding these pre¬ 
cious orisons — and they lasted generally till he grew hoarse and 
his voice was strangled in his throat — he would be off again; always 
straight down to the Grange! I wonder Edgar did not send for a 
constable, and give him into custody! For me, grieved as I was 
about Catherine, it was impossible to avoid regarding this season 
of deliverance from degrading oppression as a holiday. 

“I recovered spirits sufficient to hear Joseph’s eternal lectures 
without weeping, and to move up and down the house less with the 
foot of a frightened thief than formerly. You wouldn’t think that 
I should cry.at anything Joseph could say; but he and Hareton are 
detestable companions. I’d rather sit with Hindley, and hear his 
awful talk, than with ‘t’ little maister’ and his staunch supporter, 
that odious old man! When Heathcliff is in, I’m often obliged to 
seek the kitchen and their society, or starve among the damp un¬ 
inhabited chambers; when he is not, as was the case this week, I 
establish a table and chair at one corner of the house fire, and never 
mind how Mr Earnshaw may occupy himself; and he does not in¬ 
terfere with my arrangements. He is quieter now than he used to 
be, if no one provokes him: more sullen and depressed, and less 
furious. Joseph affirms he’s sure he’s an altered man: that the 
Lord has touched his heart, and he is saved 'so as by fire.’ I’m 
puzzled to detect signs of the favourable change: but it is not my 
business. 

"Yester-evening I sat in my nook reading some old books till 
late on towards twelve. It seemed so dismal to go upstairs, with 
the wild snow blowing outside, and my thoughts continually re¬ 
verting to the kirkyard and the new-made grave! I dared hardly 
lift my eyes from the page before me, that melancholy scene so 
instantly usurped its place. Hindley sat opposite, his head leant 
on his hand; perhaps meditating on the same subject. He had 
ceased drinking at a point below irrationality, and had neither 
stirred nor spoken during two or three hours. There was no sound 
through the house but the moaning wind, which shook the windows 

145 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


every now and then, the faint crackling of the coals, and the click 
of my snuffers as I removed at intervals the long wick of the candle. 
Hareton and Joseph were probably fast asleep in bed. It was 
very, very sad: and while I read I sighed, for it seemed as if all joy 
had vanished from the world, never to be restored. 

“The doleful silence was broken at length by the sound of the 
kitchen latch: Heathcliff had returned from his watch earlier than 
usual; owing, I suppose, to the sudden storm. That entrance was 
fastened, and we heard him coming round to get in by the other. I 
rose with an irrepressible expression of what I felt on my lips, which 
induced my companion, who had been staring towards the door, to 
turn and look at me. 

“‘I’ll keep him out five minutes,’ he exclaimed. ‘You won’t 
object?’ 

“‘No, you may keep him out the whole night for me,’ I answered. 
‘Do ! put the key in the lock, and draw the bolts.’ 

“Earnshaw accomplished this ere his guest reached the front; 
he then came and brought his chair to the other side of my table, 
leaning over it, and searching in my eyes for a sympathy with the 
burning hate that gleamed from his: as he both looked and felt like 
an assassin, he couldn’t exactly find that; but he discovered enough 
to encourage him to speak. 

“‘You and I,’ he said, ‘have each a great debt to settle with the 
man out yonder! If we were neither of us cowards, we might com¬ 
bine to discharge it. Are you as soft as your brother? Are you 
willing to endure to the last, and not once attempt a repayment ? ’ 

“‘I’m weary of enduring now,’ I replied; ‘and I’d be glad of a 
retaliation that wouldn’t recoil on myself; but treachery and vio¬ 
lence are spears pointed at both ends: they wound those who resort 
to them worse than their enemies.’ 

“‘Treachery and violence are a just return for treachery and vio¬ 
lence!’ cried Hindley. ‘Mrs Heathcliff, I’ll ask you to do noth¬ 
ing; but sit still and be dumb. Tell me now, can you? I’m sure 
you would have as much pleasure as I in witnessing the conclusion 
of the fiend’s existence; he’ll be your death unless you overreach 
him; and he’ll be my ruin. Damn the hellish villain ! He knocks 
at the door as if he were master here already! Promise to hold 
your tongue, and before that clock strikes — it wants three minutes 
of one — you’re a free woman ! ’ 

“He took the implements which I described to you in my letter 

146 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


from his breast, and would have turned down the candle. I 
snatched it away, however, and seized his arm. 

“‘I’ll not hold my tongue!’ I said; ‘you mustn’t touch him. 
Let the door remain shut, and be quiet! ’ 

“‘No! I’ve formed my resolution, and by God I’ll execute it!’ 
cried the desperate being. ‘I’ll do you a kindness in spite of your¬ 
self, and Hareton justice! And you needn’t trouble your head to 
screen me; Catherine is gone. Nobody alive would regret me, or 
be ashamed, though I cut my throat this minute — and it’s time to 
make an end ! ’ 

“I might as well have struggled with a bear, or reasoned with a 
lunatic. The only resource left me was to run to a lattice and warn 
his intended victim of the fate which awaited him. 

“‘You'd better seek shelter somewhere else to-night!’ I ex¬ 
claimed in rather a triumphant tone. ‘Mr Earnshaw has a mind 
to shoot you, if you persist in endeavouring to enter.’ 

“‘You’d better open the door, you’-he answered, address¬ 

ing me by some elegant term that I don’t care to repeat. 

“‘I shall not meddle in the matter,’ I retorted again. ‘Come in 
and get shot, if you please! I’ve done my duty.’ 

“With that I shut the window and returned to my place by the 
fire; having too small a stock of hypocrisy at my command to pre¬ 
tend any anxiety for the danger that menaced him. Earnshaw 
swore passionately at me: affirming that I loved the villain yet; 
and calling me all sorts of names for the base spirit I evinced. And 
I, in my secret heart (and conscience never reproached me), thought 
what a blessing it would be for him should Heathcliff put him out 
of misery; and what a blessing for me should he send Heathcliff 
to his right abode! As I sat nursing these reflections, the casement 
behind me was banged on to the floor by a blow from the latter in¬ 
dividual, and his black countenance looked blightingly through. 
The stanchions stood too close to suffer his shoulders to follow, and 
I smiled, exulting in my fancied security. His hair and clothes were 
whitened with snow, and his sharp cannibal teeth, revealed by cold 
and wrath, gleamed through the dark. 

“‘Isabella, let me in, or I’ll make you repent!’ he ‘girned,’ as 
Joseph calls it. 

“‘I cannot commit murder,’ I replied. ‘Mr Hindley stands sen¬ 
tinel with a knife and loaded pistol.’ 

“‘Let me in by the kitchen door,’ he said. 

147 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“‘Hindley will be there before you/ I answered: ‘and that’s a 
poor love of yours that cannot bear a shower of snow! We were 
left at peace in our beds as long as the summer moon shone, but the 
moment a blast of winter returns, you must run for shelter! Heath- 
cliff, if I were you, I’d go stretch myself over her grave and die like 
a faithful dog. The world is surely not worth living in now, is it? 
You had distinctly impressed on me the idea that Catherine was the 
whole joy of your life: I can’t imagine how you think of surviving 
her loss.’ 

“‘He’s there, is he?’ exclaimed my companion, rushing to the 
gap. ‘If I can get my arm out I can hit him!’ 

“I’m afraid, Ellen, you’ll set me down as really wicked; but you 
don’t know all, so don’t judge. I wouldn’t have aided or abetted 
an attempt on even his life for anything. Wish that he were dead, 
I must; and therefore I was fearfully disappointed, and unnerved 
by terror for the consequences of my taunting speech, when he flung 
himself on Earnshaw’s weapon and wrenched it from his grasp. 

“The charge exploded, and the knife, in springing back, closed 
into its owner’s wrist. Heathcliff pulled it away by main force, 
slitting up the flesh as it passed on, and thrust it dripping into his 
pocket. He then took a stone, struck down the division between two 
windows, and sprang in. His adversary had fallen senseless with 
excessive pain and the flow of blood, that gushed from an artery or 
a large vein. The ruffian kicked and trampled on him, and dashed 
his head repeatedly against the flags, holding me with one hand, 
meantime, to prevent me summoning Joseph. He exerted preter¬ 
human self-denial in abstaining from finishing him completely; 
but getting out of breath he finally desisted, and dragged the ap¬ 
parently inanimate body on to the settle. There he tore off the 
sleeve of Earnshaw’s coat, and bound up the wound with brutal 
roughness; spitting and cursing during the operation as energeti¬ 
cally as he had kicked before. Being at liberty, I lost no time in 
seeking the old servant; who, having gathered by degrees the pur¬ 
port of my hasty tale, hurried below, gasping, as he descended the 
steps two at once. 

“‘What is ther to do, now? what is ther to do, now?’ 

‘“There’s this to do,’ thundered Heathcliff, ‘that your master’s 
mad; and should he last another month, I’ll have him to an asylum. 
And how the devil did you come to fasten me out, you toothless 
hound? Don’t stand muttering and mumbling there. Come, I’m 

148 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


not going to nurse him. Wash that stuff away; and mind the sparks 
of your candle — it is more than half brandy I ’ 

‘‘‘And so, ye’ve been murthering on him?’ exclaimed Joseph, 
lifting his hands and eyes in horror. ‘ If iver I seed a seeght loike 
this ! May the Lord ’- 

“Heathcliff gave him a push on to his knees in the middle of the 
blood, and flung a towel to him; but instead of proceeding to dry 
it up, he joined his hands and began a prayer, which excited my 
laughter from its odd phraseology. I was in the condition of mind 
to be shocked at nothing: in fact, I was as reckless as some male¬ 
factors show themselves at the foot of the gallows. 

“‘Oh, I forgot you,’ said the tyrant. ‘You shall do that. Down 
with you. And you conspire with him against me, do you, viper? 
There, that is work fit for you! ’ 

“He shook me till my teeth rattled, and pitched me beside Jo¬ 
seph, who steadily concluded his supplications and then rose, vow¬ 
ing he would set off for the Grange directly. Mr Linton was a 
magistrate, and though he had fifty wives dead, he should inquire 
into this. He was so obstinate in his resolution, that Heathcliff 
deemed it expedient to compel from my lips a recapitulation of what 
had taken place; standing over me, heaving with malevolence, as 
I reluctantly delivered the account in answer to his questions. 
It required a great deal of labour to satisfy the old man that 
Heathcliff was not the aggressor; especially with my hardly- 
wrung replies. However, Mr Earnshaw soon convinced him that 
he was alive still; Joseph hastened to administer a dose of spirits, 
and by their succour his master presently regained motion and con¬ 
sciousness. Heathcliff, aware that his opponent was ignorant of 
the treatment received while insensible, called him deliriously in¬ 
toxicated; and said he should not notice his atrocious conduct 
further, but advised him to get to bed. To my joy, he left us, after 
giving this judicious counsel, and Hindley stretched himself on the 
hearthstone. I departed to my own room, marvelling that I had 
escaped so easily. 

“This morning, when I came down, about half-an-hour before 
noon, Mr Earnshaw was sitting by the fire, deadly sick; his evil 
genius, almost as gaunt and ghastly, leant against the chimney. 
Neither appeared inclined to dine, and, having waited till all was 
cold on the table, I commenced alone. Nothing hindered me from 
eating heartily, and I experienced a certain sense of satisfaction and 

149 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


superiority, as, at intervals, I cast a look towards my silent com¬ 
panions, and felt the comfort of a quiet conscience within me. 
After I had done, I ventured on the unusual liberty of drawing near 
the fire, going round Earnshaw’s seat, and kneeling in the corner 
beside him. 

“Heathcliff did not glance my way, and I gazed up, and contem¬ 
plated his features almost as confidently as if they had been turned 
to stone. His forehead, that I once thought so manly, and that I 
now think so diabolical, was shaded with a heavy cloud; his basi¬ 
lisk eyes were nearly quenched by sleeplessness, and weeping, per¬ 
haps, for the lashes were wet then; his lips devoid of their ferocious 
sneer, and sealed in an expression of unspeakable sadness. Had it 
been another, I would have covered my face in the presence of such 
grief. In his case, I was gratified; and, ignoble as it seems to 
insult a fallen enemy, I couldn’t miss this chance of sticking in a 
dart: his weakness was the only time when I could taste the delight 
of paying wrong for wrong.” 

Fie, fie, miss ! I interrupted. One might suppose you had never 
opened a Bible in your fife. If God afflict your enemies, surely 
that ought to suffice you. It is both mean and presumptuous to 
add your torture to His! 

“In general I’ll allow that it would be, Ellen,” she continued; 
“but what misery laid on Heathcliff could content me, unless I 
have a hand in it ? I’d rather he suffered less, if I might cause his 
sufferings and he might know that I was the cause. Oh, I owe him 
so much. On only one condition can I hope to forgive him. It is, 
if I may take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; for every wrench 
of agony return a wrench: reduce him to my level. As he was the 
first to injure, make him the first to implore pardon; and then — 
why then, Ellen, I might show you some generosity. But it is ut¬ 
terly impossible I can ever be revenged, and therefore I cannot for¬ 
give him. Hindley wanted some water, and I handed him a glass, 
and asked him how he was. 

“‘Not as ill as I wish,’ he replied. ‘But leaving out my arm, 
every inch of me is as sore as if I had been fighting with a legion of 
imps! ’ 

“‘Yes, no wonder,’ was my next remark. ‘Catherine used to 
boast that she stood between you and bodily harm: she meant that 
certain persons would not hurt you for fear of offending her. It’s 
well people don’t really rise from their grave, or, last night, she might 

150 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


have witnessed a repulsive scene! Are not you bruised and cut 
over your chest and shoulders ? ’ 

“‘I can’t say,’ he answered: ‘but what do you mean? Did he 
dare to strike me when I was down ? ’ 

He trampled on and kicked you, and dashed you on the ground,’ 
I whispered. ‘And his mouth watered to tear you with his teeth; 
because he’s only half man: not so much, and the rest fiend.’ 

“Mr Earnshaw looked up, like me, to the countenance of our 
mutual foe; who, absorbed in his anguish, seemed insensible to 
anything around him: the longer he stood, the plainer his reflec¬ 
tions revealed their blackness through his features. 

“‘Oh, if God would but give me strength to strangle him in my 
last agony, I’d go to hell with joy,’ groaned the impatient man, 
writhing to rise, and sinking back in despair, convinced of his in¬ 
adequacy for the struggle. 

“‘Nay, it’s enough that he has murdered one of you,’ I observed 
aloud. ‘At the Grange, everyone knows your sister would have 
been living now, had it not been for Mr Heathcliff. After all, it is 
preferable to be hated than loved by him. When I recollect how 
happy we were — how happy Catherine was before he came — 
I’m fit to curse the day.’ 

“Most likely, Heathcliff noticed more the truth of what was said, 
than the spirit of the person who said it. His attention was roused, 
I saw, for his eyes rained down tears among the ashes, and he drew 
his breath in suffocating sighs. I stared full at him, and laughed 
scornfully. The clouded windows of hell flashed a moment towards 
me; the fiend which usually looked out, however, was so dimmed 
and drowned that I did not fear to hazard another sound of derision. 

“‘Get up, and begone out of my sight,’ said the mourner. 

“I guessed he uttered those words, at least, though his voice was 
hardly intelligible. 

“‘I beg your pardon,’ I replied. ‘But I loved Catherine too; 
and her brother requires attendance, which, for her sake, I shall 
supply. Now that she’s dead, I see her in Hindley: Hindley has 
exactly her eyes, if you had not tried to gouge them out, and made 
them black and red; and her ’- 

“ ‘ Get up, wretched idiot, before I stamp you to death ! ’ he cried, 
making a movement that caused me to make one also. 

“‘But then,’ I continued, holding myself ready to flee; ‘if poor 
Catherine had trusted you, and assumed the ridiculous, contempti- 

I 5 I 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


ble, degrading title of Mrs Heathcliff, she would soon have pre¬ 
sented a similar picture ! She wouldn’t have borne your abominable 
behaviour quietly: her detestation and disgust must have found 
voice.’ 

“The back of the settle and Earnshaw’s person interposed be¬ 
tween me and him: so instead of endeavouring to reach me, he 
snatched a dinner knife from the table and flung it at my head. It 
struck beneath my ear, and stopped the sentence I was uttering; 
but, pulling it out, I sprang to the door and delivered another; 
which I hope went a little deeper than his missile. The last glimpse 
I caught of him was a furious rush on his part, checked by the em¬ 
brace of his host; and both fell locked together on the hearth. In 
my flight through the kitchen I bid Joseph speed to his master; I 
knocked over Hareton, who was hanging a litter of puppies from a 
chair-back in the doorway; and, blest as a soul escaped from pur¬ 
gatory, I bounded, leaped, and flew down the steep road; then, 
quitting its windings, shot direct across the moor, rolling over banks, 
and wading through marshes: precipitating myself, in fact, towards 
the beacon light of the Grange. And far rather would I be con¬ 
demned to a perpetual dwelling in the infernal regions, than, even 
for one night, abide beneath the roof of Wuthering Heights again.” 

Isabella ceased speaking, and took a drink of tea; then she rose, 
and bidding me put on her bonnet, and a great shawl I had brought, 
and turning a deaf ear to my entreaties for her to remain another 
hour, she stepped on to a chair, kissed Edgar’s and Catherine’s 
portraits, bestowed a similar salute on me, and descended to the 
carriage, accompanied by Fanny, who yelped wild with joy at re¬ 
covering her mistress. She was driven away, never to revisit this 
neighbourhood: but a regular correspondence was established be¬ 
tween her and my mastt,: when things were more settled. I be¬ 
lieve her new abode was in the south, near London; there she had 
a son born, a few months subsequent to her escape. He was chris¬ 
tened Linton, and, from the first, she reported him to be an ailing, 
peevish creature. 

Mr Heathcliff, meeting me one day in the village, inquired where 
she lived. I refused to tell. He remarked that it was not of any 
moment, only she must beware of coming to her brother: she should 
not be with him, if he had to keep her himself. Though I would 
give no information, he discovered, through some of the other ser¬ 
vants, both her place of residence and the existence of the child. 

l 5 2 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Still he didn’t molest her: for which forbearance she might thank 
his aversion, I suppose. He often asked about the infant, when he 
saw me; and on hearing its name, smiled grimly, and observed — 

“They wish me to hate it too, do they?” 

“I don’t think they wish you to know anything about it,” I 
answered. 

“But I’ll have it,” he said, “when I want it. They may reckon 
on that I” 

Fortunately, its mother died before the time arrived; some thir¬ 
teen years after the decease of Catherine, when Linton was twelve, 
or a little more. 

On the day succeeding Isabella’s unexpected visit, I had no oppor¬ 
tunity of speaking to my master: he shunned conversation, and was 
fit for discussing nothing. When I could get him to listen, I saw 
it pleased him that his sister had left her husband; whom he ab¬ 
horred with an intensity which the mildness of his nature would 
scarcely seem to allow. So deep and sensitive was his aversion, 
that he refrained from going anywhere where he was likely to see 
or hear of Heathcliff. Grief, and that together, transformed him 
into a complete hermit: he threw up his office of magistrate, ceased 
even to attend church, avoided the village on all occasions, and 
spent a life of entire seclusion within the limits of his park and 
grounds; only varied by solitary rambles on the moors, and visits 
to the grave of his wife, mostly at evening, or early morning before 
other wanderers were abroad. But he was too good to be thor¬ 
oughly unhappy long. He didn’t pray for Catherine’s soul to 
haunt him. Time brought resignation, and a melancholy sweeter 
than common joy. He recalled her memory with ardent, tender 
love, and hopeful aspiring to the better world; where he doubted 
not she was gone. 

And he had earthly consolation and affections also. For a few 
days, I said, he seemed regardless of the puny successor to the de¬ 
parted : that coldness melted as fast as snow in April, and ere the 
tiny thing could stammer a word or totter a step, it wielded a despot’s 
sceptre in his heart. It was named Catherine; but he never called 
it the name in full, as he had never called the first Catherine short; 
probably because Heathcliff had a habit of doing so. The little 
one was always Cathy; it formed to him a distinction from the 
mother, and yet a connection with her; and his attachment sprang 
from its relation to her, far more than from its being his own. 

153 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


I used to draw a comparison between him and Hindley Earnshaw, 
and perplex myself to explain satisfactorily why their conduct was 
so opposite in similar circumstances. They had both been fond 
husbands, and were both attached to their children; and I could 
not see how they shouldn’t both have taken the same road, for good 
or evil. But, I thought in my mind, Hindley, with apparently the 
stronger head, has shown himself sadly the worse and the weaker 
man. When his ship struck, the captain abandoned his post; and 
the crew, instead of trying to save her, rushed into riot and confu¬ 
sion, leaving no hope for their luckless vessel. Linton, on the con¬ 
trary, displayed the true courage of a loyal and faithful soul: he 
trusted God; and God comforted him. One hoped, and the other 
despaired: they chose their own lots, and were righteously doomed 
to endure them. But you’ll not want to hear my moralising, Mr 
Lockwood; you’ll judge as well as I can, all these things: at least, 
you’ll think you will, and that’s the same. The end of Earnshaw 
was what might have been expected; it followed fast on his sister’s: 
there was scarcely six months between them. We., at the Grange, 
never got a very succinct account of his state preceding it; all that 
I did learn, was on occasion of going to aid in the preparations for 
the funeral. Mr Kenneth came to announce the event to my master. 

“Well, Nelly,” said he, riding into the yard one morning, too 
early not to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news, 
“it’s yours and my turn to go into mourning at present. Who’s 
given us the slip now, do you think ? ” 

“Who?” I asked in a flurry. 

“Why, guess !” he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle 
on a hook by the door. “And nip up the corner of your apron: 
I’m certain you’ll need it.” 

“Not Mr Heathcliff, surely?” I exclaimed. 

“ What! would you have tears for him?” said the doctor. “No, 
Heathcliff’s a tough young fellow: he looks blooming to-day. I’ve 
just seen him. He’s rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better 
half.” 

“Who is it then, Mr Kenneth?” I repeated impatiently. 

“Hindley Earnshaw! Your old friend Hindley,” he replied, 
“and my wicked gossip: though he’s been too wild for me this long 
while. There! I said we should draw water. But cheer up. 
He died true to his character: drunk as a lord. Poor lad! 
I’m sorry, too. One can’t help missing an old companion: 

J 54 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


though he had the worst tricks with him that ever man imagined, 
and has done me many a rascally turn. He’s barely twenty- 
seven, it seems; that’s your own age: who would have thought 
you were born in one year?” 

I confess this blow was greater to me than the shock of Mrs Lin¬ 
ton’s death: ancient associations lingered round my heart; I sat 
down in the porch and wept as for a blood relation, desiring Mr 
Kenneth to get another servant to introduce him to the master. I 
could not hinder myself from pondering on the question — “Had 
he had fair play ? ” Whatever I did, that idea would bother me: it 
was so tiresomely pertinacious that I resolved on requesting leave 
to go to Wuthering Heights, and assist in the last duties to the dead. 
Mr Linton was extremely reluctant to consent, but I pleaded elo¬ 
quently for the friendless condition in which he lay; and I said my 
old master and foster-brother had a claim on my services as strong 
as his own. Besides, I reminded him that the child Hareton was 
his wife’s nephew, and, in the absence of nearer kin, he ought to 
act as its guardian; and he ought to and must inquire how the prop¬ 
erty was left, and look over the concerns of his brother-in-law. He 
was unfit for attending to such matters then, but he bid me speak to 
his lawyer; and at length permitted me to go. His lawyer had been 
Earnshaw’s also: I called at the village, and asked him to accom¬ 
pany me. He shook his head, and advised that Heathcliff should 
be let alone; affirming, if the truth were known, Hareton would be 
found little else than a beggar. 

“His father died in debt,” he said; “the whole property is mort¬ 
gaged, and the sole chance for the natural heir is to allow him an 
opportunity of creating some interest in the creditor’s heart, that he 
may be inclined to deal leniently towards him.” 

When I reached the Heights, I explained that I had come to see 
everything carried on decently; and Joseph, who appeared in suffi¬ 
cient distress, expressed satisfaction at my presence. Mr Heath- 
cliff said he did not perceive that I was wanted; but I might stay 
and order the arrangements for the funeral, if I chose. 

“Correctly,” he remarked, “that fool’s body should be buried 
at the cross-roads, without ceremony of any kind. I happened 
to leave him ten minutes yesterday afternoon, and in that interval 
he fastened the two doors of the house against me, and he has 
spent the night in drinking himself to death deliberately! We 
broke in this morning, for we heard him snorting like a horse; 

155 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and there he was, laid over the settle; flaying and scalping would 
not have wakened him. I .sent for Kenneth, and he came; but 
not till the beast had changed into carrion: he was both dead and 
cold, and stark; and so you’ll allow it was useless making more 
stir about him!” 

The old servant confirmed this statement, but muttered — 

“I’d rayther he’d goan hisseln for t’ doctor! I sud ha’ taen 
tent o’ t’ maister better nor him — and he warn’t deead when I 
left, naught o’ t’ soart!” 

I insisted on the funeral being respectable. Mr Heathcliff said 
I might have my own way there too; only, he desired me to re¬ 
member that the money for the whole affair came out of his pocket. 
He maintained a hard, careless deportment, indicative of neither 
joy nor sorrow; if anything, it expressed a flinty gratification at 
a piece of difficult work successfully executed. I observed once, 
indeed, something like exultation in his aspect: it was just when 
the people were bearing the coffin from the house. He had the 
hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and previous to following with 
Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on to the table and mut¬ 
tered, with peculiar gusto, “Now, my bonny lad, you are mine! 
And we’ll see if one tree won’t grow as crooked as another, with 
the same wind to twist it!” The unsuspecting thing was pleased 
at this speech: he played with Heathcliff’s whiskers, and stroked 
his cheek; but I divined its meaning, and observed tartly, “That 
boy must go back with me to Thrushcross Grange, sir. There 
is nothing in the world less yours than he is!” 

“Does Linton say so?” he demanded. 

“Of course — he has ordered me to take him,” I replied. 

“Well,” said the scoundrel, “we’ll not argue the subject now: 
but I have a fancy to try my hand at rearing a young one; so inti¬ 
mate to your master that I must supply the place of this with my 
own, if he attempt to remove it. I don’t engage to let Hareton 
go undisputed; but I’ll be pretty sure to make the other come! 
Remember to tell him.” 

This hint was enough to bind our hands. I repeated its sub¬ 
stance on my return; and Edgar Linton, little interested at the 
commencement, spoke no more of interfering. I’m not aware 
that he could have done it to any purpose, had he been ever so 
willing. 

The guest was now the master of Wuthering Heights: he held 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


firm possession, and proved to the attorney — who, in his turn, 
proved it to Mr Linton — that Earnshaw had mortgaged every 
yard of land he owned, for cash to supply his mania for gam¬ 
ing; and he, Heathcliff, was the mortgagee. In that manner 
Hareton, who should now be the first gentleman in the neighbour¬ 
hood, was reduced to a state of complete dependence on his father’s 
inveterate enemy; and lives in his own house as a servant, deprived 
of the advantage of wages: quite unable to right himself, because 
of his friendlessness, and his ignorance that he has been wronged. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

T HE twelve years, continued Mrs Dean, following that 
dismal period, were the happiest of my life: my greatest 
troubles in their passage rose from our little lady’s trifling illnesses, 
which she had to experience in common with all children, rich 
and poor. For the rest, after the first six months, she grew like a 
larch, and could walk and talk too, in her own way, before the 
heath blossomed a second time over Mrs Linton’s dust. She 
was the most winning thing that ever brought sunshine into a deso¬ 
late house: a real beauty in face, with the Earnshaws’ handsome 
dark eyes, but the Lintons’ fair skin and small features, and yellow 
curling hair. Her spirit was high, though not rough, and quali¬ 
fied by a heart sensitive and lively to excess in its affections. That 
capacity for intense attachments reminded me of her mother: 
still she did not resemble her; for she could be soft and mild as a 
dove, and she had a gentle voice and pensive expression: her anger 
was never furious; her love never fierce: it was deep and tender. 
However, it must be acknowledged, she had faults to foil her gifts. 
A propensity to be saucy was one; and a perverse will, that indulged 
children invariably acquire, whether they be good-tempered or 
cross. If a servant chanced to vex her, it was always — “I shall 
tell papa!” And if he reproved her, even by a look, you would 
have thought it a heart-breaking business: I don’t believe he ever 
did speak a harsh word to her. He took her education entirely 
on himself, and made it an amusement. Fortunately, curiosity 
and a quick intellect made her an apt scholar: she learned rapidly 
and eagerly, and did honour to his teaching. 

157 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Till she reached the age of thirteen, she had not once been be¬ 
yond the range of the park by herself. Mr Linton would take 
her with him a mile or so outside, on rare occasions; but he trusted 
her to no one else. Gimmerton was an unsubstantial name in 
her ears; the chapel, the only building she had approached or 
entered, except her own home. Wuthering Heights and Mr 
Heathcliff did not exist for her: she was a perfect recluse; and, 
apparently, perfectly contented. Sometimes, indeed, while sur¬ 
veying the country from her nursery window, she would observe — 

“Ellen, how long will it be before I can walk to the top of those 
hills? I wonder what lies on the other side — is it the sea?” 

“No, Miss Cathy,” I would answer; “it is hills again, just like 
these.” 

“And what are those golden rocks like when you stand under 
them?” she once asked. 

The abrupt descent of Penistone Crags particularly attracted 
her notice; especially when the setting sun shone on it and the 
topmost heights, and the whole extent of landscape besides lay in 
shadow. I explained that they were bare masses of stone, with 
hardly enough earth in their clefts to nourish a stunted tree. 

“And why are they bright so long after it is evening here?” she 
pursued. 

“Because they are a great deal higher up than we are,” replied 
I; “you could not climb them, they are too high and steep. In 
winter the frost is always there before it comes to us; and deep 
into summer I have found snow under that black hollow on the 
north-east side!” 

“Oh, you have been on them!” she cried gleefully. “Then I 
can go, too, when I am a woman. Has papa been, Ellen?” 

“Papa would tell you, miss,” I answered hastily, “that they are 
not worth the trouble of visiting. The moors, where you ramble 
with him, are much nicer; and Thrushcross Park is the finest 
place in the world.” 

“But I know the park, and I don’t know those,” she murmured 
to herself. “And I should delight to look round me from the 
brow of that tallest point: my little pony Minny shall take me 
sometime.” 

One of the maids mentioning the Fairy Cave, quite turned her 
head with a desire to fulfil this project: she teased Mr Linton 
about it; and he promised she should have the journey when she 

158 


I 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


got older. But Miss Catherine measured her age by months, 
and, ‘‘Now, am I old enough to go to Penistone Crags?” was the 
constant question in her mouth. The road thither wound close 
by Wuthering Heights. Edgar had not the heart to pass it; so 
she received as constantly the answer, “Not yet, love: not yet.” 

I said Mrs Heathcliff lived above a dozen years after quitting her 
husband. Her family were of a delicate constitution: she and 
Edgar both lacked the ruddy health that you will generally meet 
in these parts. What her last illness was, I am not certain: I 
conjecture, they died of the same thing, a kind of fever, slow at 
its commencement, but incurable, and rapidly consuming life 
towards the close. She wrote to inform her brother of the prob¬ 
able conclusion of a four months’ indisposition under which she 
had suffered, and entreated him to come to her, if possible; for 
she had much to settle, and she wished to bid him adieu, and 
deliver Linton safely into his hands. Her hope was, that 
Linton might be left with him, as he had been with her: his father, 
she would fain convince herself, had no desire to assume the bur¬ 
den of his maintenance or education. My master hesitated not a 
moment in complying with her request: reluctant as he was to 
leave home at ordinary calls, he flew to answer this; commending 
Catherine to my peculiar vigilance, in his absence, with reiter¬ 
ated orders that she must not wander out of the park, even under 
my escort: he did not calculate on her going unaccompanied. 

He was away three weeks. The first day or two, my charge sat 
in a corner of the library, too sad for either reading or playing: 
in that quiet state she caused me little trouble; but it was succeeded 
by an interval of impatient fretful weariness; and being too busy, 
and too old then, to run up and down amusing her, I hit on a 
method by which she might entertain herself. I used to send 
her on her travels round the grounds — now on foot, and now on 
a pony; indulging her with a patient audience of all her real and 
imaginary adventures, when she returned. 

The summer shone in full prime; and she took such a taste for 
this solitary rambling that she often contrived to remain out from 
breakfast till tea; and then the evenings were spent in recounting 
her fanciful tales. I did not fear her breaking bounds; because 
the gates were generally locked, and I thought she would scarcely 
venture forth alone, if they had stood wide open. Unluckily, 
my confidence proved misplaced. Catherine came to me, one 

159 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


morning, at eight o’clock, and said she was that day an Arabian 
merchant, going to cross the Desert with his caravan; and I must 
give her plenty of provision for herself and beasts: a horse, and 
three camels, personated by a large hound and a couple of pointers. 
I got together good store of dainties, and slung them in a basket 
on one side of the saddle; and she sprang up as gay as a fairy, 
sheltered by her wide-brimmed hat and gauze veil from the July 
sun, and trotted off with a merry laugh, mocking my cautious 
counsel to avoid galloping, and come back early. The naughty 
thing never made her appearance at tea. One traveller, the 
hound, being an old dog and fond of its ease, returned; but neither 
Cathy, nor the pony, nor the two pointers were visible in any di¬ 
rection: I despatched emissaries down this path, and that path, 
and at last went wandering in search of her myself. There was a 
labourer working at a fence round a plantation, on the borders 
of the grounds. I inquired of him if he had seen our young 
lady. 

“I saw her at morn,” he replied; “she would have me to cut 
her a hazel switch, and then she leapt her Galloway over the hedge 
yonder, where it is lowest, and galloped out of sight.” 

You may guess how I felt at hearing this news. It struck me 
directly she must have started for Penistone Crags. “What will 
become of her?” I ejaculated, pushing through a gap which the 
man was repairing, and making straight to the highroad. I walked 
as if for a wager, mile after mile, till a turn brought me in view of 
the Heights; but no Catherine could I detect far or near. The 
Crags lie about a mile and a half beyond Mr Heathcliff’s place, 
and that is four from the Grange, so I began to fear night would 
fall ere I could reach them. “And what if she should have slipped 
in clambering among them?” I reflected, “and been killed, or 
broken some of her bones?” My suspense was truly painful; 
and, at first, it gave me delightful relief to observe, in hurrying by 
the farmhouse, Charlie, the fiercest of the pointers, lying under a 
window, with swelled head and bleeding ear. I opened the wicket 
and ran to the door, knocking vehemently for admittance. A 
woman whom I knew, and who formerly lived at Gimmerton, an¬ 
swered : she had been servant there since the death of Mr Earnshaw. 

“Ah,” said she, “you are come a seeking your little mistress! 
don’t be frightened. She’s here safe: but I’m glad it isn’t the 
master.” 

160 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“He is not at home then, is he?” I panted, quite breathless 
with quick walking and alarm. 

“No, no,” she replied: “both he and Joseph are off, and I 
think they won’t return this hour or more. Step in and rest you 
a bit.” 

I entered, and beheld my stray lamb seated on the hearth, rock¬ 
ing herself in a little chair that had been her mother’s when a child. 
Her hat was hung against the wall, and she seemed perfectly at 
home, laughing and chattering, in the best spirits imaginable, to 
Hareton — now a great, strong lad of eighteen — who stared at 
her with considerable curiosity and astonishment: comprehend¬ 
ing precious little of the fluent succession of remarks and ques¬ 
tions which her tongue never ceased pouring forth. 

“Very well, miss!” I exclaimed, concealing my joy under an 
angry countenance. “This is your last ride, till papa comes back. 
I’ll not trust you over the threshold again, you naughty, naughty 
girl!” 

-“Aha, Ellen!” she cried gaily, jumping up and running to my 
side. “I shall have a pretty story to tell to-night: and so 
you’ve found me out. Have you ever been here in your life 
before?” 

“Put that hat on, and home at once,” said I. “I’m dreadfully 
grieved at you, Miss Cathy: you’ve done extremely wrong. It’s 
no use pouting and crying: that won’t repay the trouble I’ve had, 
scouring the country after you. To think how Mr Linton charged 
me to keep you in; and you stealing off so! it shows you are a 
cunning little fox, and nobody will put faith in you any more.” 

“What have I done?” sobbed she, instantly checked. “Papa 
charged me nothing: he’ll not scold me, Ellen — he’s never cross, 
like you!” 

“Come, come!” I repeated. “I’ll tie the riband. Now, let 
us have no petulance. Oh, for shame! You thirteen years old, 
and such a baby! ” 

This exclamation was caused by her pushing the hat from her 
head, and retreating to the chimney out of my reach. 

“Nay,” said the servant, “don’t be hard on the bonny lass, 
Mrs Dean. We made her stop: she’d fain have ridden forwards, 
afeard you should be uneasy. Hareton offered to go with her, 
and I thought he should: it’s a wild road over the hills.” 

Hareton, during the discussion, stood with his hands in his 

161 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


pockets, too awkward to speak; though he looked as if he did 
not relish my intrusion. 

“How long am I to wait?” I continued, disregarding the woman’s 
interference. “It will be dark in ten minutes. Where is the 
pony, Miss Cathy? And where is Phoenix? I shall leave you, 
unless you be quick; so please yourself.” 

“The pony is in the yard,” she replied, “and Phoenix is shut 
in there. He’s bitten — and so is Charlie. I was going to tell 
you all about it; but you are in a bad temper, and don’t deserve 
to hear.” 

I picked up her hat, and approached to reinstate it; but per¬ 
ceiving that the people of the house took her part, she commenced 
capering round the room; and on my giving chase, ran like a 
mouse over and under and behind the furniture, rendering it ridicu¬ 
lous for me to pursue. Hareton and the woman laughed, and 
she joined them, and waxed more impertinent still; till I cried, in 
great irritation — 

“Well, Miss Cathy, if you were aware whose house this is, you’d 
be glad enough to get out.” 

“It’s your father’s, isn’t it?” said she, turning to Hareton. 

“Nay,” he replied, looking down, and blushing bashfully. 

He could not stand a steady gaze from her eyes, though they 
were just his own. 

“Whose then — your master’s?” she asked. 

He coloured deeper, with a different feeling, muttered an oath, 
and turned away. 

“Who is his master?” continued the tiresome girl, appealing to 
me. “He talked about ‘our house,’ and ‘our folk.’ I thought he 
had been the owner’s son. And he never said, Miss; he should 
have done, shouldn’t he, if he’s a servant?” 

Hareton grew black as a thunder-cloud, at this childish speech. 
I silently shook my questioner, and at last succeeded in equipping 
her for departure. 

“Now, get my horse,” she said, addressing her unknown kins¬ 
man as she would one of the stable-boys at the Grange. “And 
you may come with me. I want to see where the goblin-hunter 
rises in the marsh, and to hear about the fairishes, as you call 
them: but make haste! What’s the matter ? Get my horse, I 
say.” 

“I’ll see thee damned before I be thy servant!” growled the lad. 

162 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


You’ll see me what?” asked Catherine in surprise. 

“Damned — thou saucy witch!” he replied. 

There, Miss Cathy! you see you have got into pretty com- 
pany, I interposed. “Nice words to be used to a young lady! 
Pray don’t begin to dispute with him. Come, let us seek for Minny 
ourselves, and begone.” 

But, Ellen,” cried she, staring, fixed in astonishment, “how 
dare he speak so to me ? Mustn’t he be made to do as I ask him ? 
You wicked creature, I shall tell papa what you said. — Now, 
then!” 

Hareton did not appear to feel this threat; so the tears sprang 
into her eyes with indignation. “You bring the pony,” she ex¬ 
claimed, turning to the woman, “and let my dog free this moment!” 

“Softly, miss,” answered she addressed: “you’ll lose nothing 
by being civil. Though Mr Hareton, there, be not the master’s 
son, he’s your cousin; and I was never hired to serve you.” 

11 He my cousin!” cried Cathy, with a scornful laugh. 

“Yes, indeed,” responded her reprover. 

“Oh, Ellen! don’t let them say such things,” she pursued, in 
great trouble. “Papa is gone to fetch my cousin from London: 
my cousin is a gentleman’s son. That my ” — she stopped, and 
wept outright; upset at the bare notion of relationship with such 
a clown. 

“Hush, hush!” I whispered, “people can have many cousins, 
and of all sorts, Miss Cathy, without being any the worse for it; 
only they needn’t keep their company, if they be disagreeable 
and bad.” 

“He’s not — he’s not my cousin, Ellen!” she went on, gath¬ 
ering fresh grief from reflection, and flinging herself into my arms 
for refuge from the idea. 

I was much vexed at her and the servant for their mutual reve¬ 
lations; having no doubt of Linton’s approaching arrival, com¬ 
municated by the former, being reported to Mr Heathcliff; and 
feeling as confident that Catherine’s first thought on her father’s 
return, would be to seek an explanation of the latter’s assertion 
concerning her rude-bred kindred. Hareton, recovering from 
his disgust at being taken for a servant, seemed moved by her 
distress; and, having fetched the pony round to the door, he took, 
to propitiate her, a fine crooked-legged terrier-whelp from the ken¬ 
nel, and putting it into her hand bid her wisht! for he meant 

163 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


nought. Pausing in her lamentations, she surveyed him with a 
glance of awe and horror, then burst forth anew. 

I could scarcely refrain from smiling at this antipathy to the 
poor fellow; who was a well-made, athletic youth, good-looking 
in features, and stout and healthy, but attired in garments befit¬ 
ting his daily occupations of working on the farm, and lounging 
among the moors after rabbits and game. Still, I thought I could 
detect in his physiognomy a mind owning better qualities than his 
father ever possessed. Good things lost amid a wilderness of 
weeds, to be sure, whose rankness far overtopped their neglected 
growth; yet, notwithstanding, evidence of a wealthy soil, that 
might yield luxuriant crops under other and favourable circum¬ 
stances. Mr Heathcliff, I believe, had not treated him physically 
ill; thanks to his fearless nature, which offered no temptation to 
that course of oppression: he had none of the timid susceptibility 
that would have given zest to ill-treatment, in Heathcliff’s judg¬ 
ment. He appeared to have bent his malevolence on making 
him a brute: he was never taught to read or write; never rebuked 
for any bad habit which did not annoy his keeper;, never led a 
single step towards virtue, or guarded by a single precept against * 
vice. And from what I heard, Joseph contributed much to his 
deterioration, by a narrow-minded partiality which prompted 
him to flatter and pet him, as a boy, because he was the head of 
the old family. And as he had been in the habit of accusing Cath¬ 
erine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, when children, of putting the 
master past his patience, and compelling him to seek solace in drink 
by what he termed their “offalld ways,” so at present he laid the 
whole burden of Hareton’s faults on the shoulders of the usurper 
of his property. If the lad swore, he wouldn’t correct him: not 
however culpably he behaved. It gave Joseph satisfaction, ap¬ 
parently, to watch him go the worst lengths: he allowed that the 
lad was ruined: that his soul was abandoned to perdition; but 
then, he reflected that Heathcliff must answer for it. Hareton’s 
blood would be required at his hands; and there lay immense 
consolation in that thought. Joseph had instilled into him a pride 
of name, and of his lineage; he would, had he dared, have fostered 
hate between him and the present owner of the Heights: but his 
dread of that owner amounted to superstition; and he confined 
his feelings regarding him to muttered innuendoes and private 
comminations. I don’t pretend to be intimately acquainted with 

164 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


the mode of living customary in those days at Wuthering Heights: 
I only speak from hearsay; for I saw little. The villagers af¬ 
firmed Mr Heathcliff was near, and a cruel hard landlord to his 
tenants; but the house, inside, had regained its ancient aspect of 
comfort under-female management, and the scenes of riot common 
in Hindley’s time were not now enacted within its walls. The 
master was too gloomy to seek companionship with any people, 
good or bad; and he is yet. 

This, however, is not making progress with my story. Miss 
Cathy rejected the peace-offering of the terrier, and demanded 
her own dogs, Charlie and Phoenix. They came limping, and 
hanging their heads; and we set out for home, sadly out of sorts, 
every one of us. I could not wring from my little lady how she 
had spent the day; except that, as I supposed, the goal of her pil¬ 
grimage was Penistone Crags; and she arrived without adventure 
to the gate of the farmhouse, when Hareton happened to issue 
forth, attended by some canine followers, who attacked her train. 
They had a smart battle, before their owners could separate them: 
that formed an introduction. Catherine told Hareton who she 
was, and where she was going; and asked him to show her the 
way: finally, beguiling him to accompany her. He opened the 
mysteries of the Fairy Cave, and twenty other queer places. But, 
being in disgrace, I was not favoured with a description of the 
interesting objects she saw. I could gather, however, that her 
guide had been a favourite till she hurt his feelings by addressing 
him as a servant; and Heathcliff’s housekeeper hurt hers by call¬ 
ing him her cousin. Then the language he had held to her rankled 
in her heart; she who was always “love,” and “darling,” and 
“queen,” and “angel,” with everybody at the Grange, to be in¬ 
sulted so shockingly by a stranger! She did not comprehend it; 
and hard work I had to obtain a promise that she would not lay 
the grievance before her father. I explained how he objected to 
the whole household at the Heights, and how sorry he would be 
to find she had been there; but I insisted most on the fact, that if 
she revealed my negligence of his orders, he would perhaps be so 
angry, that I should have to leave; and Cathy couldn’t bear that 
prospect: she pledged her word, and kept it, for my sake. After 
all, she was a sweet little girl. 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 

CHAPTER XIX. 

LETTER, edged with black, announced the day of my 



A master’s return. Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid 
me get mourning for his daughter, and arrange a room, and other 
accommodations, for his youthful nephew. Catherine ran wild 
with joy at the idea of welcoming her father back; and indulged 
most sanguine anticipations of the innumerable excellencies of 
her “real” cousin. The evening of their expected arrival came. 
Since early morning, she had been busy ordering her own small 
affairs; and now, attired in her new black frock — poor thing! 
her aunt’s death impressed her with no definite sorrow — she 
obliged me, by constant worrying, to walk with her down through 
.the grounds to meet them. 

“Linton is just six months younger than I am,” she chattered, 
as we strolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf, 
under shadow of the trees. “How delightful it will be to have 
him for a play-fellow! Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock 
of his hair; it was lighter than mine — more flaxen, and quite as 
fine. I have it carefully preserved in a little glass box: and I’ve 
often thought what pleasure it would be to see its owner. Oh! 
I am happy — and papa, dear, dear papa! Come, Ellen, let us 
run! come, run.” 

She ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my 
sober footsteps reached the gate, and then she seated herself on 
the grassy bank beside the path, and tried to wait patiently; but 
that was impossible: she couldn’t be still a minute. 

“How long they are!” she exclaimed. “Ah, I see some dust 
on the road — they are coming ? No ! When will they be here ? 
May we not go a little way — half a mile, Ellen: only just half a 
mile? Do say yes: to that clump of birches at the turn!” 

I refused staunchly. At length her suspense was ended: the 
travelling carriage rolled in sight. Miss Cathy shrieked and 
stretched out her arms, as soon as she caught her father’s face 
looking from the window. He descended, nearly as eager as her¬ 
self: and a considerable interval elapsed ere they had a thought 
to spare for any but themselves. While they exchanged caresses, 
I took a peep in to see after Linton. He was asleep in a corner, 
wrapped in a warm, fur-lined cloak, as if it had been winter. 


166 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


A pale, delicate, effeminate boy, who might have been taken for my 
master’s younger brother, so strong was the resemblance: but 
there was a sickly peevishness in his aspect, that Edgar Linton never 
had. The latter saw me looking; and having shaken hands, 
advised me to close the door, and leave him undisturbed; for the 
journey had fatigued him. Cathy would fain have taken one 
glance, but her father told her to come, and they walked together 
up the park, while I hastened before to prepare the servants. 

“Now, darling,” said Mr Linton, addressing his daughter, as 
they halted at the bottom of the front steps; “your cousin is not 
so strong or so merry as you are, and he has lost his mother, re¬ 
member, a very short time since; therefore, don’t expect him to 
play and run about with you directly. And don’t harass him 
much by talking: let him be quiet this evening, at least, will you ? ” 

“Yes, yes, papa,” answered Catherine: “but I do want to see 
him; and he hasn’t once looked out.” 

The carriage stopped; and the sleeper being roused, was lifted 
to the ground by his uncle. 

“This is your cousin Cathy, Linton,” he said, putting their 
little hands together. “She’s fond of you already; and mind 
you don’t grieve her by crying to-night. Try to be cheerful now; 
the travelling is at an end, and you have nothing to do but rest and 
amuse yourself as you please.” 

“Let me go to bed, then,” answered the boy, shrinking from 
Catherine’s salute; and he put up his fingers to remove incipient 
tears. 

“Come, come, there’s a good child,” I whispered, leading him 
in. “You’ll make her weep too — see how sorry she is for you!” 

I do not know whether it was sorrow for him, but his cousin 
put on as sad a countenance as himself, and returned to her father. 
All three entered, and mounted to the library, where tea was laid 
ready. I proceeded to remove Linton’s cap and mantle, and 
placed him on a chair by the table; but he was no sooner seated 
than he began to cry afresh. My master inquired what was the 
matter. 

“I can’t sit on a chair,” sobbed the boy. 

“Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea,” 
answered his uncle patiently. 

He had been greatly tried during the journey, I felt convinced, 
by his fretful ailing charge. Linton slowly trailed himself off, 

167 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and lay down. Cathy carried a footstool and her cup to his side. 
At first she sat silent; but that could not last: she had resolved 
to make a pet of her little cousin, as she would have him to be; and 
she commenced stroking his curls, and kissing his cheek, and 
offering him tea in her saucer, like a baby. This pleased him, 
for he was not much better: he dried his eyes, and lightened into 
a faint smile. 

“Oh, he’ll do very well,” said the master to me, after watching 
them a minute. “Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen. The 
company of a child of his own age will instil new spirit into him 
soon, and by wishing for strength he’ll gain it.” 

“Ay, if we can keep him!” I mused to myself; and sore mis¬ 
givings came over me that there was slight hope of that. And 
then, I thought, however will that weakling live at Wuthering 
Heights? Between his father and Hareton, what playmates and 
instructors they’ll be. Our doubts were presently decided — 
even earlier than I expected. I had just taken the children up¬ 
stairs, after tea was finished, and seen Linton asleep — he would 
not suffer me to leave him till that was the case — I had come 
down, and was standing by the table in the hall, lighting a bedroom 
candle for Mr Edgar, when a maid stepped out of the kitchen and 
informed me that Mr Heathcliff’s servant Joseph was at the door, 
and wished to speak with the master. 

“I shall ask him what he wants first,” I said, in considerable 
trepidation. “A very unlikely hour to be troubling people, 
and the instant they have returned from a long journey. I don’t 
think the master can see him.” 

Joseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these 
words, and now presented himself in the hall. He was donned 
in his Sunday garments, with his most sanctimonious and sourest 
face, and, holding his hat in one hand and his stick in the other, 
he proceeded to clean his shoes on the mat. 

“Good evening, Joseph,” I said coldly. “What business brings 
you here to-night?” 

“It’s Maister Linton I mun spake to,” he answered, waving me 
disdainfully aside. 

“Mr Linton is going to bed; unless you have something 
particular to say, I’m sure he won’t hear it now,” I continued. 
“You had better sit down in there, and entrust your message 
to me.” 


168 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Which is his rahm?” pursued the fellow, surveying the range 
of closed doors. 

I perceived he was bent on refusing my mediation, so very re¬ 
luctantly I went up to the library, and announced the unseasonable 
visitor, advising that he should be dismissed till next day. Mr 
Linton had no time to empower me to do so, for Joseph mounted 
close at my heels, and, pushing into the apartment, planted him¬ 
self at the far side of the table, with his two fists clapped on the 
head of his stick, and began in an elevated tone, as if anticipating 
opposition — 

“Hathecliff has sent me for his lad, and I munn’t goa back ’bout 
him.” 

Edgar Linton was silent a minute; an expression of exceeding 
sorrow overcast his features: he would have pitied the child on 
his own account; but, recalling Isabella’s hopes and fears, and 
anxious wishes for her son, and her commendations of him to his 
care, he grieved bitterly at the prospect of yielding him up, and 
searched in his heart how it might be avoided. No plan offered 
itself: the very exhibition of any desire to keep him would have 
rendered the claimant more peremptory: there was nothing left 
but to resign him. However, he was not going to rouse him from 
his sleep. 

“Tell Mr Heathcliff,” he answered calmly, “that his son shall 
come to Wuthering Heights to-morrow. He is in bed, and too 
tired to go the distance now. You may also tell him that the mother 
of Linton desired him to remain under my guardianship; and, at 
present, his health is very precarious.” 

“Noa!” said Joseph, giving a thud with his prop on the floor, 
and assuming an authoritative air; “noa! that means naught. 
Hathecliff maks noa ’count o’ t’ mother, nor ye norther; but he’ll 
hev his lad; und I mun tak him — soa now ye knaw! ” 

“You shall not to-night!” answered Linton decisively. “Walk 
downstairs at once, and repeat to your master what I have said. 
Ellen, show him down. Go”- 

And, aiding the indignant elder with a lift by the arm, he rid 
the room of him, and closed the door. 

“Varrah weell!” shouted Joseph, as he slowly drew off. “To- 
morn, he’s come hisseln, and thrust him out, if ye darr! ” 


169 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


CHAPTER XX. 

* I A 0 obviate the danger of this threat being fulfilled, Mr Lin- 
JL ton commissioned me to take the boy home early, on Cath¬ 
erine’s pony; and, said he — 

“As we shall now have no influence over his destiny, good or 
bad, you must say nothing of where he is gone, to my daughter: 
she cannot associate with him hereafter, and it is better for her to 
remain in ignorance of his proximity; lest she should be restless, 
and anxious to visit the Heights. Merely tell her his father sent 
for him suddenly, and he has been obliged to leave us.” 

Linton was very reluctant to be roused from his bed at five 
o’clock, and astonished to be informed that he must prepare for 
further travelling; but I softened off the matter by stating that he 
was going to spend some time with his father, Mr Heathcliff, who 
wished to see him so much, he did not like to defer the pleasure 
till he should recover from his late journey. 

“My father!” he cried, in strange perplexity. “Mamma 
never told me I had a father. Where does he live? I’d rather 
stay with uncle.” 

“He lives a little distance from the Grange,” I replied; “just 
beyond those hills: not so far, but you may walk over here when 
you get hearty. And you should be glad to go home, and to see 
him. You must try to love him, as you did your mother, and then 
he will love you.” 

“But why have I not heard of him before?” asked Linton. 
“Why didn’t mamma and he live together, as other people do?” 

“He had business to keep him in the north,” I answered, “and 
your mother’s health required her to reside in the south.” 

“And why didn’t mamma speak to me about him?” persevered 
the child. “She often talked of uncle, and I learnt to love him 
long ago. How am I to love papa? I don’t know him.” 

“Oh, all children love their parents,” I said. “Your mother, 
perhaps, thought you would want to be with him if she mentioned 
him often to you. Let us make haste. An early ride on such a 
beautiful morning is much preferable to an hour’s more sleep.” 

“Is she to go with us,” he demanded: “the little girl I saw yes¬ 
terday?” 

“Not now,” replied I. 


170 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Is uncle?” he continued. 

“No, I shall be your companion there,” I said. 

Linton sank back on his pillow and fell into a brown study. 

“I won’t go without uncle,” he cried at length: “I can’t tell 
where you mean to take me.” 

I attempted to persuade him of the naughtiness of showing re¬ 
luctance to meet his father; still he obstinately resisted any prog¬ 
ress towards dressing, and I had to call for my master’s assistance 
in coaxing him out of bed. The poor thing was finally got off, 
with several delusive assurances that his absence should be short; 
that Mr Edgar and Cathy would visit him, and other promises, 
equally ill-founded, which I invented and reiterated at intervals 
throughout the way. The pure heather-scented air, the bright 
sunshine, and the gentle canter of Minny, relieved his despondency 
after a while. He began to put questions concerning his new 
home, and its inhabitants, with greater interest and liveliness. 

“Is Wuthering Heights as pleasant a place as Thrushcross 
Grange?” he inquired, turning to take a last glance into the valley, 
whence a light mist mounted and formed a fleecy cloud on the 
skirts of the blue. 

“It is not so buried in trees,”I replied, “and it is not quite so large, 
but you can see the country beautifully all round; and the air is 
healthier for you — fresher and dryer. You will, perhaps, think 
the building old and dark at first; though it is a respectable house: 
the next best in the neighbourhood. And you will have such nice 
rambles on the moors. Hareton Earnshaw — that is Miss Cathy’s 
other cousin, and so yours in a manner — will show you all the 
sweetest spots; and you can bring a book in fine weather, and 
make a green hollow your study; and, now and then, your uncle 
may join you in a walk: he does, frequently, walk out on the 
hills.” 

“And what is my father like?” he asked. “Is he as young and 
handsome as uncle?” 

“He’s as young,” said I; “but he has black hair and eyes, and 
looks sterner; and he is taller and bigger altogether. He’ll not 
seem to you so gentle and kind at first, perhaps, because it is not 
his way: still, mind you, be frank and cordial with him; and natu¬ 
rally he’ll be fonder of you than any uncle, for you are his own.” 

“Black hair and eyes!” mused Linton. “I can’t fancy him. 
Then I am not like him, am I?” 

I 7 I 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Not much,” I answered: not a morsel, I thought, surveying 
with regret the white complexion and slim frame of my compan¬ 
ion, and his large languid eyes — his mother’s eyes, save that, 
unless a morbid touchiness kindled them a moment, they had not 
a vestige of her sparkling spirit. 

“How strange that he should never come to see mamma and 
me!” he murmured. “Has he ever seen me? If he has, I must 
have been a baby. I remember not a single thing about him! ” 

“Why, Master Linton,” said I, “three hundred miles is a great 
distance; and ten years seem very different in length to a grown¬ 
up person compared with what they do to you. It is probable 
Mr Heathcliff proposed going from summer to summer, but never 
found a convenient opportunity; and now it is too late. Don’t 
trouble him with questions on the subject: it will disturb him, for 
no good.” 

The boy was fully occupied with his own cogitations for the 
remainder of the ride, till we halted before the farm-house garden 
gate. I watched to catch his impressions in his countenance. He 
surveyed the carved front and low-browed lattices, the straggling 
gooseberry bushes and crooked firs, with solemn intentness, and 
then shook his head: his private feelings entirely disapproved of 
the exterior of his new abode. But he had sense to postpone 
complaining: there might be compensation within. Before he 
dismounted, I went and opened the door. It was half-past six; 
the family had just finished breakfast; the servant was clearing and 
wiping down the table. Joseph stood by his master’s chair tell¬ 
ing some tale concerning a lame horse; and Hareton was preparing 
for the hay-field. 

“Hallo, Nelly!” said Mr Heathcliff, when he saw me. “I 
feared I should have to come down and fetch my property my¬ 
self. You’ve brought it, have you ? Let us see what we can make 
of it.” 

He got up and strode to the door: Hareton and Joseph followed 
in gaping curiosity. Poor Linton ran a frightened eye over the 
faces of the three. 

“Sure-ly,” said Joseph, after a grave inspection, “he’s swopped 
wi’ ye, maister, an’ yon’s his lass!” 

Heathcliff, having stared his son into an ague of confusion, 
uttered a scornful laugh. 

“God! what a beauty! what a lovely, charming thing!” he 

I 72 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


exclaimed. “Haven’t they reared it on snails and sour milk, Nelly? 
Oh, damn my soul! but that’s worse than I expected — and the 
devil knows I was not sanguine! ” 

I bid the trembling and bewildered child get down, and enter. 
He did not thoroughly comprehend the meaning of his father’s 
speech, or whether it were intended for him: indeed, he was not 
yet certain that the grim, sneering stranger was his father. But 
he clung to me with growing trepidation; and on Mr Heathcliff’s 
taking a seat and bidding him “Come hither,” he hid his face on 
my shoulder and wept. 

“Tut, tut!” said Heathcliff, stretching out a hand and dragging 
him roughly between his knees, and then holding up his head by 
the chin. “None of that nonsense! We’re not going to hurt 
thee, Linton — isn’t that thy name ? Thou art thy mother’s 
child, entirely! Where is my share in thee, puling chicken?” 

He took off the boy’s cap and pushed back his thick flaxen 
curls, felt his slender arms and his small fingers; during which 
examination Linton ceased crying, and lifted his great blue eyes 
to inspect the inspector. 

“Do you know me?” asked Heathcliff, having satisfied himself 
that the limbs were all equally frail and feeble. 

“No,” said Linton, with a gaze of vacant fear. 

“You’ve heard of me, I daresay?” 

“No,” he replied again. 

“No! What a shame of your mother, never to waken your 
filial regard for me ! You are my son, then, I’ll tell you; and your 
mother was a wicked slut to leave you in ignorance of the sort of 
father you possessed. Now, don’t wince, and colour up ! Though 
it is something to see you have not white blood. Be a good lad; 
and I’ll do for you. Nelly, if you be tired you may sit down; if 
not, get home again. I guess you’ll report what you hear and 
see to the cipher at the Grange; and this thing won’t be settled 
while you linger about it.” 

“Well,” replied I, “I hope you’ll be kind to the boy, Mr Heath¬ 
cliff, or you’ll not keep him long; and he’s all you have akin in 
the wide world, that you will ever know — remember.” 

“I’ll be very kind to him, you needn’t fear,” he said, laughing. 
“Only nobody else must be kind to him: I’m jealous of monopo¬ 
lising his affection. And, to begin my kindness, Joseph, bring the 
lad some breakfast. Hareton, you infernal calf, begone to your 

173 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


work. Yes, Nell,” he added, when they had departed, “my son 
is prospective owner of your place, and I should not wish him to 
die till I was certain of being his successor. Besides, he’s mine, 
and I want the triumph of seeing my descendant fairly lord of 
their estates: my child hiring their children to till their father’s 
lands for wages. That is the sole consideration which can make 
me endure the whelp: I despise him for himself, and hate him 
for the memories he revives! But that consideration is sufficient: 
he’s as safe with me, and shall be tended as carefully as your master 
tends his own. I have a room upstairs, furnished for him in 
handsome style: I’ve engaged a tutor, also, to come three times a 
week, from twenty miles distance, to teach him what he pleases 
to learn. I’ve ordered Hareton to obey him; and in fact I’ve 
arranged everything with a view to preserve the superior and the 
gentleman in him, above his associates. I do regret, however, 
that he so little deserves the trouble: if I wished any blessing in 
the world, it was to find him a worthy object of pride; and I’m 
bitterly disappointed with the whey-faced whining wretch! ” 

While he was speaking, Joseph returned bearing a basin of 
milk-porridge, and placed it before Linton; who stirred round 
the homely mess with a look of aversion, and affirmed he could 
not eat it. I saw the old man-servant shared largely in his master’s 
scorn of the child; though he was compelled to retain the senti¬ 
ment in his heart, because Heathcliff plainly meant his underlings 
to hold him in honour. 

“Cannot ate it?” repeated he, peering in Linton’s face, and 
subduing his voice to a whisper, for fear of being overheard. “But 
Maister Hareton nivir ate naught else, when he wer a little un; 
and what wer gooid eneugh for him’s gooid eneugh for ye, I’s 
rayther think! ” 

“I shan't eat it!” answered Linton snappishly. “Take it 
away.” 

Joseph snatched up the food indignantly, and brought it to us. 

“Is there aught ails th’ victuals?” he asked, thrusting the tray 
under Heathcliff’s nose. 

“What should ail them?” he said. 

“Wah!” answered Joseph, “yon dainty chap says he cannut 
ate ’em. But I guess it’s raight! His mother wer just soa — we 
wer a’most too mucky to sow t’ corn for makking her breead.” 

“Don’t mention his mother to me,” said the master angrily. 

*74 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 

Get him something that he can eat, that’s all. What is his usual 
food, Nelly?” 

I suggested boiled milk or tea; and the housekeeper received 
instructions to prepare some. Come, I reflected, his father’s 
selfishness may contribute to his comfort. He perceives his deli¬ 
cate constitution, and the necessity of treating him tolerably. 
I’ll console Mr Edgar by acquainting him with the turn Heath- 
cliff’s humour has taken. Having no excuse for lingering longer 
I slipped out, while Linton was engaged in timidly rebuffing the 
advances of a friendly sheep-dog. But he was too much on the 
alert to be cheated: as I closed the door, I heard a cry, and a frantic 
repetition of the words — 

‘‘Don’t leave me ! I’ll not stay here ! I’ll not stay here ! ” 

Then the latch was raised and fell: they did not suffer him to 
come forth. I mounted Minny, and urged her to a trot; and so 
my brief guardianship ended. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

W E had sad work with little Cathy that day; she rose in high 
glee, eager to join her cousin, and such passionate tears 
and lamentations followed the news of his departure, that Edgar 
himself was obliged to soothe her, by affirming he should come 
back soon: he added, however, “if I can get him;” and there were 
no hopes of that. This promise poorly pacified her: but time 
was more potent; and though still at intervals she inquired of her 
father when Linton would return, before she did see him again 
his features had waxed so dim in her memory that she did not 
recognise him. 

When I chanced to encounter the housekeeper of Wuthering 
Heights in paying business visits to Gimmerton, I used to ask 
how the young master got on; for he lived almost as secluded as 
Catherine herself, and was never to be seen. I could gather 
from her that he continued in weak health, and was a tiresome 
inmate. She said Mr Heathcliff seemed to dislike him ever longer 
and worse, though he took some trouble to conceal it: he had an 
antipathy to the sound of his voice, and could not do at all with 
his sitting in the same room with him many minutes together. 

1 15 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


There seldom passed much talk between them: Linton learnt his 
lessons and spent his evenings in a small apartment they called 
the parlour: or else lay in bed all day: for he was constantly 
getting coughs, and colds, and aches, and pains of some sort. 

“And I never knew such a faint-hearted creature,” added the 
woman; “nor one so careful of hisseln. He will go on, if I leave 
the window open a bit late in the evening. Oh! it’s killing! a 
breath of night air! And he must have a fire in the middle of 
summer; and Joseph’s bacca pipe is poison; and he must al¬ 
ways have sweets and dainties, and always milk, milk for ever —■ 
heeding naught how the rest of us are pinched in winter; and 
there he’ll sit, wrapped in his furred cloak in his chair by the fire, 
with some toast and water or other slop on the hob to sip at; and 
if Hareton, for pity, comes to amuse him — Hareton is not bad- 
natured, though he’s rough — they’re sure to part, one swearing 
and the other crying. I believe the master would relish Earn- 
shaw’s thrashing him to a mummy, if he were not his son; and 
I’m certain he would be fit to turn him out of doors, if he knew 
half the nursing he gives hisseln. But then, he won’t go into dan¬ 
ger of temptation: he never enters the parlour, and should Linton 
show those ways in the house where he is, he sends him upstairs 
directly.” 

I divined, from this account, that utter lack of sympathy had 
rendered young Heathcliff selfish and disagreeable, if he were not 
so originally; and my interest in him, consequently, decayed: 
though still I was moved with a sense of grief at his lot, and a wish 
that he had been left with us. Mr Edgar encouraged me to gain 
information: he thought a great deal about him, I fancy, and 
would have run some risk to see him; and he told me once to ask 
the housekeeper whether he ever came into the village? She 
said he had only been twice, on horseback, accompanying his 
father, and both times he pretended to be quite knocked up for 
three or four days afterwards. The housekeeper left, if I recollect 
rightly, two years after he came; and another, whom I did not 
know, was her successor: she lives there still. 

Time wore on at the Grange in its former pleasant way, till 
Miss Cathy reached sixteen. On the anniversary of her birth 
we never manifested any signs of rejoicing, because it was also 
the anniversary of my late mistress’s death. Her father invari¬ 
ably spent that day alone in the library; and walked, at dusk, 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


as far as Gimmerton kirkyard, where he would frequently pro¬ 
long his stay beyond midnight. Therefore Catherine was thrown 
on her own resources for amusement. This 20th of March was a 
beautiful spring day, and when her father had retired, my young 
lady came down dressed for going out, and said she asked to 
have a ramble on the edge of the moor with me: Mr Linton 
had given her leave, if we went only a short distance and were 
back within the hour. 

“So make haste, Ellen!” she cried. “I know where I wish to 
go; where a colony of moor game are settled: I want to see whether 
they have made their nests yet.” 

‘‘That must be a good distance up,” I answered; “they don’t 
breed on the edge of the moor.” 

“No, it’s not,” she said. “I’ve gone very near with papa.” 

I put on my bonnet and sallied out, thinking nothing more of the 
matter. She bounded before me, and returned to my side, and 
was off again like a young greyhound; and, at first, I found plenty 
of entertainment in listening to the larks singing far and near, and 
enjoying the sweet, warm sunshine; and watching her, my pet, and 
my delight, with her golden ringlets flying loose behind, and her 
bright cheek, as soft and pure in its bloom as a wild rose, and her 
eyes radiant with cloudless pleasure. She was a happy creature, 
and an angel, in those days. It’s a pity she could not be content. 

“Well,” said I, “where are vour moor-game, Miss Cathy? We 
should be at them: the Grange park-fence is a great way off now.” 

“ Oh, a little further —only a little further, Ellen,” was her answer 
continually. “Climb to that hillock, pass that bank, and by the 
time you reach the other side I shall have raised the birds.” 

But there were so many hillocks and banks to climb and pass, 
that, at length, I began to be weary, and told her we must halt, and 
retrace our steps. I shouted to her, as she had outstripped me a 
long way; she either did not hear or did not regard, for she still 
sprang on, and I was compelled to follow. Finally, she dived into a 
hollow; and before I came in sight of her again, she was two miles 
nearer Wuthering Heights than her own home; and I beheld a couple 
of persons arrest her, one of whom I felt convinced was Mr Heathcliff 
himself. 

Cathy had been caught in the fact of plundering, or, at least, 
hunting out the nests of the grouse. The Heights were Heathcliff’s 
land, and he was reproving the poacher. 

177 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“I’ve neither taken any nor found any,” she said, as I toiled to 
them, expanding her hands in corroboration of the statement. “I 
didn’t mean to take them; but papa told me there were quantities 
up here, and I wished to see the eggs.” 

Heathcliff glanced at me with an ill-meaning smile, expressing 
his acquaintance with the party, and, consequently, his malevo¬ 
lence towards it, and demanded who “papa” was? 

“Mr Linton of Thrushcross Grange,” she replied. “I thought 
you did not know me, or you wouldn’t have spoken in that 
way.” 

“You suppose papa is highly esteemed and respected then?” he 
said sarcastically. 

“And what are you?” inquired Catherine, gazing curiously on 
the speaker. “That man I’ve seen before. Is he your son?” 

She pointed to Harcton, the other individual, who had gained 
nothing but increased bulk and strength by the addition of two 
years to his age: he seemed as awkward and rough as ever. 

“Miss Cathy,” I interrupted, “it will be three hours instead of one 
that we are out, presently. We really must go back.” 

“No, that man is not my son,” answered Heathcliff, pushing me 
aside. “But I have one, and you have seen him before too; and, 
though your nurse is in a hurry, I think both you and she would be 
the better for a little rest. Will you just turn this nab of heath, and 
walk into my house ? You’ll get home earlier for the ease; and you 
shall receive a kind welcome.” 

I whispered Catherine that she mustn’t, on any account, accede 
to the proposal: it was entirely out of the question. 

“Why?” she asked, aloud. “I’m tired of running, and the 
ground is dewy: I can’t sit here. Let us go, Ellen. Besides, he 
says I have seen his son. He’s mistaken, I think; but I guess where 
he lives: at the farm-house I visited in coming from Penistone Crags. 
Don’t you?” 

“I do. Come, Nelly, hold your tongue — it will be a treat for her 
to look in on us. Hareton, get forwards with the lass. You shall 
walk with me, Nelly.” 

“No, she’s not going to any such place,” I cried, struggling to 
release my arm, which he had seized: but she was almost at the door- 
stones already, scampering round the brow at full speed. Her 
appointed companion did not pretend to escort her: he shied off 
by the road-side, and vanished. 

178 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Mr Heathcliff, it’s very wrong,” I continued: “you know you 
mean no good. And there she’ll see Linton, and all will be told as 
soon as ever we return; and I shall have the blame.” 

“I want her to see Linton,” he answered; “he’s looking better 
these few days: it’s not often he’s fit to be seen. And we’ll soon 
persuade her to keep the visit secret: where is the harm of it?” 

“The harm of it is, that her father would hate me if he found I 
suffered her to enter your house; and I am convinced you have a 
bad design in encouraging her to do so,” I replied. 

“My design is as honest as possible. I’ll inform you of its whole 
scope,” he said. “That the two cousins may fall in love, and get 
married. I’m acting generously to your master: his young chit has 
no expectations, and should she second my wishes, she’ll be pro¬ 
vided for at once as joint successor with Linton.” 

“If Linton died,” I answered, “and his life is quite uncertain, 
Catherine would be the heir.” 

“No, she would not,” he said. “There is no clause in the will to 
secure it so: his property would go to me; but, to prevent disputes, 
I desire their union, and am resolved to bring it about.” 

“And I’m resolved she shall never approach your house with me 
again,” I returned, as we reached the gate, where Miss Cathy waited 
our coming. 

Heathcliff bade me be quiet; and, preceding us up the path, 
hastened to open the door. My young lady gave him several looks, 
as if she could not exactly make up her mind what to think of him; 
but now he smiled when he met her eye, and softened his voice in 
addressing her; and I was foolish enough to imagine the memory 
of her mother might disarm him from desiring her injury. Linton 
stood on the hearth. He had been out walking in the fields, for his 
cap was on, and he was calling to Joseph to bring him dry shoes. 
He had grown tall of his age, still wanting some months of sixteen. 
His features were pretty yet, and his eye and complexion brighter 
than I remembered them, though with merely temporary lustre 
borrowed from the salubrious air and genial sun. 

“Now, who is that?” asked Mr Heathcliff, turning to Cathy. 
“ Can you tell ? ” 

“Your son?” she said, having doubtfully surveyed, first one and 
then the other. 

“Yes, yes,” answered he: “but is this the only time you have 
beheld him ? Think ! Ah ! you have a short memory. Linton, 

179 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


don’t you recall your cousin, that you used to tease us so with wishing 
to see?” 

“ What, Linton ! ” cried Cathy, kindling into joyful surprise at the 
name. “Is that little Linton? He’s taller than I am! Are you 
Linton?” 

The youth stepped forward, and acknowledged himself: she 
kissed him fervently, and they gazed with wonder at the change time 
had wrought in the appearance of each. Catherine had reached her 
full height; her figure was both plump and slender, elastic as steel, 
and her whole aspect sparkling with health and spirits. Linton’s 
looks and movements were very languid, and his form extremely 
slight; but there was a grace in his manner that mitigated these 
defects, and rendered him not unpleasing. After exchanging nu¬ 
merous marks of fondness with him, his cousin went to Mr Heath- 
cliff, who lingered by the door, dividing his attention between the 
objects inside and those that lay without: pretending, that is, to 
observe the latter, and really noting the former alone. 

“And you are my uncle, then !” she cried, reaching up to salute 
him. “ I thought I liked you, though you were cross at first. Why 
don’t you visit at the Grange with Linton? To live all these years 
such close neighbours, and never see us, is odd: what have you done 
so for?” 

“I visited it once or twice too often before you were born,” he 
answered. “There — damn it! If you have any kisses to spare, 
give them to Linton: they are thrown away on me.” 

“Naughty Ellen !” exclaimed Catherine, flying to attack me next 
with her lavish caresses. “ Wicked Ellen ! to try to hinder me from 
entering. But I’ll take this walk every morning in future: may I, 
uncle ? and sometimes bring papa. Won’t you be glad to see us ? ” 

“Of course!” replied the uncle, with a hardly suppressed 
grimace, resulting from his deep aversion to both the proposed 
visitors. “But stay,” he continued, turning towards the young 
lady. “Now I think of it, I’d better tell you. Mr Linton has a 
prejudice against me: we quarrelled at one time of our lives, with 
unchristian ferocity; and, if you mention coming here to him, he’ll 
put a veto on your visits altogether. Therefore, you must not men¬ 
tion it, unless you be careless of seeing your cousin hereafter: you 
may come, if you will, but you must not mention it.” 

‘'Why did you quarrel?” asked Catherine, considerably crest¬ 
fallen. 


180 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“He thought me too poor to wed his sister,” answered Heathcliff, 
“and was grieved that I got her: his pride was hurt, and he’ll never 
forgive it.” 

“That’s wrong!” said the young lady: “sometime, I’ll tell him 
so. But Linton and I have no share in your quarrel. I’ll not come 
here, then; he shall come to the Grange.” 

“It will be too far for me,” murmured her cousin: “to walk four 
miles would kill me. No, come here, Miss Catherine, now and 
then: not every morning, but once or twice a week.” 

The father launched towards his son a glance of bitter contempt. 

“I am afraid, Nelly, I shall lose my labour,” he muttered to me. 
“Miss Catherine, as the ninny calls her, will discover his value, and 
send him to the devil. Now, if it had been Hareton! — Do you 
know that, twenty times a day, I covet Hareton, with all his degrada¬ 
tion? I’d have loved the lad had he been someone else. But I 
think he’s safe from her love. I’ll pit him against that paltry 
creature, unless it bestir itself briskly. We calculate it will scarcely 
last till it is eighteen. Oh, confound the vapid thing! He’s ab¬ 
sorbed in drying his feet, and never looks at her. — Linton! ” 

“Yes, father,” answered the boy. 

“Have you nothing to show your cousin anywhere about? not 
even a rabbit or a weasel’s nest? Take her into the garden, before 
you change your shoes; and into the stable to see your horse.” 

“Wouldn’t you rather sit here?” asked Linton, addressing Cathy 
in a tone which expressed reluctance to move again. 

“I don’t know,” she replied, casting a longing look to the door, 
and evidently eager to be active. 

He kept his seat, and shrank closer to the fire. Heathcliff rose, 
and went into the kitchen, and from thence to the yard, calling out 
for Hareton. Hareton responded, and presently the two re-entered. 
The young man had been washing himself, as was visible by the 
glow on his cheeks and his wetted hair. 

“Oh, I’ll ask you , uncle,” cried Miss Cathy, recollecting the 
housekeeper’s assertion. “That is not my cousin, is he?” 

“Yes,” he replied, “your mother’s nephew. Don’t you like him?” 

Catherine looked queer. 

“Is he not a handsome lad?” he continued. 

The uncivil little thing stood on tiptoe, and whispered a sentence 
in Heathcliff’s ear. He laughed; Hareton darkened: I perceived 
he was very sensitive to suspected slights, and had obviously a dim 

181 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


notion of his inferiority. But his master or guardian chased the 
frown by exclaiming — 

“You’ll be the favourite among us, Hareton ! She says you are 
a—What was it? Well, something very flattering. Here! you go 
with her round the farm. And behave like a gentleman, mind! 
Don’t use any bad words; and don’t stare when the young lady is 
not looking at you, and be ready to hide your face when she is; 
and, when you speak, say your words slowly, and keep your hands 
out of your pockets. Be off, and entertain her as nicely as you can.” 

He watched the couple walking past the window. Earnshaw 
had his countenance completely averted from his companion. He 
seemed studying the familiar landscape with a stranger’s and an 
artist’s interest. Catherine took a sly look at him, expressing small 
admiration. She then turned her attention to seeking out objects 
of amusement for herself, and tripped merrily on, lilting a tune 
to supply the lack of conversation. 

“I’ve tied his tongue,” observed Heathcliff. “He’ll not venture a 
single syllable, all the time! Nelly, you recollect me at his age — 
nay, some years younger. Did I ever look so stupid: so * gaumless,’ 
as Joseph calls it?” 

“Worse,” I replied, “because more sullen with it.” 

“I’ve a pleasure in him,” he continued, reflecting aloud. “He 
has satisfied my expectations. If he were a born fool I should not 
enjoy it half so much. But he’s no fool; and I can sympathise with 
all his feelings, having felt them myself. I know what he suffers 
now, for instance, exactly: it is merely a beginning of what he shall 
suffer, though. And he’ll never be able to emerge from his bathos 
of coarseness and ignorance. I’ve got him faster than his scoundrel 
of a father secured me, and lower; for he takes a pride in his brutish¬ 
ness. I’ve taught him to scorn everything extra-animal as silly and 
weak. Don’t you think Hindley would be proud of his son, if he 
could see him ? almost as proud as I am of mine. But there’s this 
difference; one is gold put to the use of paving-stones, and the other 
is tin polished to ape a service of silver. Mine has nothing valuable 
about it; yet I shall have the merit of making it go as far as such 
poor stuff can go. His had first-rate qualities, and they are lost: 
rendered worse than unavailing. / have nothing to regret; he 
would have more than any but I are aware of. And the best of it is, 
Hareton is damnably fond of me ! You’ll own that I’ve outmatched 
Hindley there. If the dead villain could rise from his grave to abuse 

182 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


me for his offspring’s wrongs, I should have the fun of seeing the 
said offspring fight him back again, indignant that he should dare 
to rail at the one friend he has in the world !” 

Heathcliff chuckled a fiendish laugh at the idea. I made no 
reply, because I saw that he expected none. Meantime, our young 
companion, who sat too rerfioved from us to hear what was said, 
began to evince symptoms of uneasiness, probably repenting that he 
had denied himself the treat of Catherine’s society for fear of a little 
fatigue. His father remarked the restless glances wandering to the 
window, and the hand irresolutely extended towards his cap. 

“ Get up, you idle boy !” he exclaimed, with assumed heartiness. 
“Away after them ! they are just at the corner, by the stand of hives.” 

Linton gathered his energies, and left the hearth. The lattice 
was open, and, as he stepped out, I heard Cathy inquiring of her 
unsociable attendant, what was that inscription over the door? 
Hareton stared up,'and scratched his head like a true clown. 

“It’s some damnable writing,” he answered. “I cannot read it.” 

“Can’t read it?” cried Catherine; “I can read it: it’s English. 
But I want to know why it is there.” 

Linton giggled: the first appearance of mirth he had exhibited. 

“He does not know his letters,” he said to his cousin. “Could 
you believe in the existence of such a colossal dunce?” 

“Is he all as he should be?” asked Miss Cathy seriously; “or is 
he simple: not right? I’ve questioned him twice now, and each 
time he looked so stupid I think he does not understand me. I can 
hardly understand him , I’m sure!” 

Linton repeated his laugh, and glanced at Hareton tauntingly; 
who certainly did not seem quite clear of comprehension at that 
moment. 

“There’s nothing the matter but laziness; is there, Earnshaw?” 
he said. “My cousin fancies you are an idiot. There you experi¬ 
ence the consequence of scorning ‘book-larning,’ as you would 
say. Have you noticed, Catherine, his frightful Yorkshire pro¬ 
nunciation?” 

“Why, where the devil is the use on’t?” growled Hareton, more 
ready in answering his daily companion. He was about to enlarge 
further, but the two youngsters broke into a noisy fit of merriment; 
my giddy miss being delighted to discover that she might turn his 
strange talk to matter of amusement. 

“Where is the use of the devil in that sentence?” tittered Linton. 

183 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Papa told you not to say any bad words, and you can’t open your 
mouth without one. Do try to behave like a gentleman, now do ! ” 

“If thou weren’t more a lass than a lad, I’d fell thee this minute, I 
would; pitiful lath of a crater! ” retorted the angry boor, retreating, 
while his face burnt with mingled rage and mortification; for he was 
conscious of being insulted, and embarrassed how to resent it. 

Mr Heathcliff having overheard the conversation, as well as I, 
smiled when he saw him go; but immediately afterwards cast a look 
of singular aversion on the flippant pair, who remained chattering 
in the doorway: the boy finding animation enough while discussing 
Hareton’s faults and deficiencies, and relating anecdotes of his 
goings-on; and the girl relishing his pert and spiteful sayings, with¬ 
out considering the ill-nature they evinced. I began to dislike, 
more than to compassionate Linton, and to excuse his father, in 
some measure, for holding him cheap. 

We stayed till afternoon: I could not tear Miss Cathy away 
sooner; but happily my master had not quitted his apartment, and 
remained ignorant of our prolonged absence. As we walked home, 
I would fain have enlightened my charge on the characters of the 
people we had quitted; but she got it into her head that I was 
prejudiced against them. 

“Aha !” she cried, “you take papa’s side, Ellen: you are partial, 
I know; or else you wouldn’t have cheated me so many years into the 
notion that Linton lived a long way from here. I’m really extremely 
angry; only I’m so pleased I can’t show it! But you must hold your 
tongue about my uncle: he’s my uncle, remember; and I’ll scold 
papa for quarrelling with him.” 

And so she ran on, till I relinquished the endeavour to convince 
her of her mistake. She did not mention the visit that night, because 
she did not see Mr Linton. Next day it all came out, sadly to my 
chagrin; and still I was not altogether sorry: I thought the burden 
of directing and warning would be more efficiently borne by him than 
me. But he was too timid in giving satisfactory reasons for his wish 
that she should shun connection with the household of the Heights, 
and Catherine liked good reasons for every restraint that harassed 
her petted will. 

“Papa!” she exclaimed, after the morning’s salutations, “guess 
whom I saw yesterday, in my walk on the moors. Ah, papa, you 
started! you’ve not done right, have you, now ? I saw — But 
listen, and you shall hear how I found you out; and Ellen,who is in 

184 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


league with you, and yet pretended to pity me so, when I kept 
hoping, and was always disappointed about Linton’s coming back ! ” 

She gave a faithful account of her excursion and its consequences; 
and my master, though he cast more than one reproachful look at 
me, said nothing till she had concluded. Then he drew her to him, 
and asked if she knew why he had concealed Linton’s near neigh¬ 
bourhood from her. Could she think it was to deny her a pleasure 
that she might harmlessly enjoy? 

“It was because you disliked Mr Heathcliff,” she answered. 

“Then you believe I care more for my own feelings than yours, 
Cathy?” he said. “No, it was not because I disliked Mr Heath- 
cliff, but because Mr Heathcliff dislikes me; and is a most diabolical 
man, delighting to wrong and ruin those he hates, if they give him 
the slightest opportunity. I knew that you could not keep up an 
acquaintance with your cousin, without being brought into contact 
with him; and I knew he would detest you on my account; so for 
your own good, and nothing else, I took precautions that you should 
not see Linton again. I meant to explain this sometime as you grew 
older, and I’m sorry I delayed it.” 

“But Mr Heathcliff was quite cordial, papa,” observed Catherine, 
not at all convinced; “and he didn’t object to our seeing each other: 
he said I might come to his house when I pleased; only I must not 
tell you, because you had quarrelled with him, and would not forgive 
him for marrying aunt Isabella. And you won’t. You are the one 
to be blamed: he is willing to let us be friends, at least; Linton and 
I; and you are not.” 

My master, perceiving that she would not take his word for her 
uncle-in-law’s evil disposition, gave a hasty sketch of his conduct 
to Isabella, and the manner in which Wuthering Heights became his 
property. He could not bear to discourse long upon the topic; for 
though he spoke little of it, he still felt the same horror and detesta¬ 
tion of his ancient enemy that had occupied his heart ever since Mrs 
Linton’s death. “ She might have been living yet, if it had not been 
for him ! ” was his constant bitter reflection; and, in his eyes, Heath¬ 
cliff seemed a murderer. Miss Cathy — conversant with no bad 
deeds except her own slight acts of disobedience, injustice, and pas¬ 
sion, arising from hot temper and thoughtlessness, and repented of 
on the day they were committed — was amazed at the blackness of 
spirit that could brood on and cover revenge for years, and de¬ 
liberately prosecute its plans without a visitation of remorse. She 

185 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


appeared so deeply impressed and shocked at this new view of human 
nature — excluded from all her studies and all her ideas till now — 
that Mr Edgar deemed it unnecessary to pursue the subject. He 
merely added — 

“ You will know hereafter, darling, why I wish you to avoid his 
house and family; now return to your old employments and amuse¬ 
ments, and think no more about them.” 

Catherine kissed her father and sat down quietly to her lessons 
for a couple of hours, according to custom; then she accompanied 
him into the grounds, and the whole day passed as usual: but in the 
evening, when she had retired to her room, and I went to help her 
to undress, I found her crying, on her knees by the bedside. 

“Oh, fie, silly child !” I exclaimed. “If you had any real griefs, 
you’d be ashamed to waste a tear on this little contrariety. You 
never had one shadow of substantial sorrow, Miss Catherine. Sup¬ 
pose, for a minute, that master and I were dead, and you were by 
yourself in the world: how would you feel then? Compare the 
present occasion with such an affliction as that, and be thankful for 
the friends you have, instead of coveting more.” 

“I’m not crying for myself, Ellen,” she answered, “it’s for him. 
He expected to see me again to-morrow, and there he’ll be so dis¬ 
appointed : and he’ll wait for me, and I shan’t come ! ” 

“Nonsense,” said I, “do you imagine he has thought as much of 
you as you have of him? Hasn’t he Hareton for a companion? 
Not one in a hundred would weep at losing a relation they had just 
seen twice, for two afternoons. Linton will conjecture how it is, and 
trouble himself no further about you.” 

“But may I not write a note to tell him why I cannot come?” 
she asked, rising to her feet. “And just send those books I prom¬ 
ised to lend him ? His books are not as nice as mine, and he wanted 
to have them extremely, when I told him how interesting they were. 
May I not, Ellen ? ” 

“No, indeed! no, indeed!” replied I, with decision. “Then he 
would write to you, and there’d never be an end of it. No, Miss 
Catherine, the acquaintance must be dropped entirely: so papa 
expects, and I shall see that it is done.” 

“But how can one little note”-she recommenced, putting 

on an imploring countenance. 

“Silence!” I interrupted. “We’ll not begin with your little 
notes. Get into bed.” 


186 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


She threw at me a very naughty look, so naughty that I would not 
kiss her good-night at first: I covered her up, and shut her door, in 
great displeasure; but, repenting half-way, I returned softly, and lo ! 
there was miss standing at the table with a bit of blank paper before 
her and a pencil in her hand, which she guiltily slipped out of sight, 
on my entrance. 

“You’ll get nobody to take that, Catherine,” I said, “if you write 
it; and at present I shall put out your candle.” 

I set the extinguisher on the flame, receiving as I did so a slap on 
my hand, and a petulant “ Cross thing ! ” I then quitted her again, 
and she drew the bolt in one of her worst, most peevish humours. 
The letter was finished and forwarded to its destination by a milk- 
fetcher who came from the village: but that I didn’t learn till some 
time afterwards. Weeks passed on, and Cathy recovered her tem¬ 
per; though she grew wondrous fond of stealing off to corners by 
herself; and often, if I came near her suddenly while reading, she 
would start and bend over the book, evidently desirous to hide it; 
and I detected edges of loose paper sticking out beyond the leaves. 
She also got a trick of coming down early in the morning and linger¬ 
ing about the kitchen, as if she were expecting the arrival of some¬ 
thing : and she had a small drawer in a cabinet in the library, which 
she would trifle over for hours, and whose key she took special care 
to remove when she left it. 

One day, as she inspected this drawer, I observed that the play¬ 
things and trinkets which recently formed its contents, were trans¬ 
muted into bits of folded paper. My curiosity and suspicions were 
aroused; I determined to take a peep at her mysterious treasures; 
so, at night, as soon as she and my master were safe upstairs, I 
searched and readily found among my house-keys one that would fit 
the lock. Having opened, I emptied the whole contents into my 
apron, and took them with me to examine at leisure in my own 
chamber. Though I could not but suspect, I was still surprised 
to discover that they were a mass of correspondence — daily almost, 
it must have been — from Linton Heathcliff: answers to documents 
forwarded by her. The earlier dated were embarrassed and short; 
gradually, however, they expanded into copious love letters, foolish, 
as the age of the writer rendered natural, yet with touches here and 
there which I thought were borrowed from a more experienced 
source. Some of them struck me as singularly odd compounds of 
ardour and flatness; commencing in strong feeling, and concluding 

187 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


in the affected, wordy style that a schoolboy might use to a fancied, 
incorporeal sweetheart. Whether they satisfied Cathy, I don’t 
know; but they appeared very worthless trash to me. After turning 
over as many as I thought proper, I tied them in a handkerchief and 
set them aside, re-locking the vacant drawer. 

Following her habit, my young lady descended early, and visited 
the kitchen: I watched her go to the door, on the arrival of a certain 
little boy; and, while the dairy-maid filled his can, she tucked some¬ 
thing into his jacket pocket, and plucked something out. I went 
round by the garden, and laid wait for the messenger; who fought 
valorously to defend his trust, and we spilt the milk between us; 
but I succeeded in abstracting the epistle; and, threatening serious 
consequences if he did not look sharp home, I remained under the 
wall and perused Miss Cathy’s affectionate composition. It was 
more simple and more eloquent than her cousin’s; very pretty and 
very silly. I shook my head, and went meditating into the house. 
The day being wet, she could not divert herself with rambling about 
the park; so, at the conclusion of her morning studies, she resorted 
to the solace of the drawer. Her father sat reading at the table; 
and I, on purpose, had sought a bit of work in some unripped fringes 
of the window curtain, keeping my eye steadily fixed on her proceed¬ 
ings. Never did any bird flying back to a plundered nest which it 
had left brimful of chirping young ones, express more complete 
despair in its anguished cries and flutterings, than she by her single 
“Oh!” and the change that transfigured her late happy counte¬ 
nance. Mr Linton looked up. 

“What is the matter, love? Have you hurt yourself?” he 
said. 

His tone and look assured her he had not been the discoverer of the 
hoard. 

“No, papa!” she gasped. “Ellen! Ellen! come upstairs — 
I’m sick! ” 

I obeyed her summons, and accompanied her out. 

“Oh, Ellen! you have got them,” she commenced immediately, 
dropping on her knees, when we were enclosed alone. “Oh, give 
them to me, and I’ll never, never do so again! Don’t tell papa. 
You have not told papa, Ellen? say you have not! I’ve been ex¬ 
ceedingly naughty, but I won’t do it any more ! ” 

With a grave severity in my manner, I bade her stand up. 

“So,” I exclaimed, “Miss Catherine, you are tolerably far on, it 

188 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


seems: you may well be ashamed of them! A fine bundle of trash 
you study in your leisure hours, to be sure: why, it’s good enough to 
be printed ! And what do you suppose the master will think, when 
I display it before him? I haven’t shown it yet, but you needn’t 
imagine I shall keep your ridiculous secrets. For shame ! and you 
must have led the way in writing such absurdities: he would not 
have thought of beginning, I’m certain.” 

“I didn’t! I didn’t!” sobbed Cathy, fit to break her heart. “I 
didn’t once think of loving him till”- 

“Loving!” cried I, as scornfully as I could utter the word. 
“Loving! Did anybody ever hear the like! I might just as well 
talk of loving the miller who comes once a year to buy our corn. 
Pretty loving, indeed! and both times together you have seen Lin¬ 
ton hardly four hours in your life ! Now here is the babyish trash. 
I’m going with it to the library; and we’ll see what your father says 
to such loving .” 

She sprang at her precious epistles, but I held them above my 
head; and then she poured out further frantic entreaties that I would 
burn them — do anything rather than show them. And being 
really fully as much inclined to laugh as scold — for I esteemed it all 
girlish vanity — I at length relented in a measure, and asked — 

“If I consent to burn them, will you promise faithfully, neither 
to send nor receive a letter again, nor a book (for I perceive you have 
sent him books), nor locks of hair, nor rings, nor playthings?” 

“We don’t send playthings!” cried Catherine, her pride over¬ 
coming her shame. 

“Nor anything at all, then, my lady,” I said. “Unless you will, 
here I go.” 

“I promise, Ellen!” she cried, catching my dress. “Oh, put 
them in the fire, do, do! ” 

But when I proceeded to open a place with the poker, the sacrifice 
was too painful to be borne. She earnestly supplicated that I would 
spare her one or two. 

“One or two, Ellen, to keep for Linton’s sake!” 

I unknotted the handkerchief, and commenced dropping them 
in from an angle, and the flame curled up the chimney. 

“I will have one, you cruel wretch; ” she screamed, darting her 
hand into the fire, and drawing forth some half-consumed frag¬ 
ments, at the expense of her fingers. 

“Very well — and I will have some to exhibit to papa!” I 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


answered, shaking back the rest into the bundle, and turning anew 
to the door. 

i 

She emptied her blackened pieces into the flames, and motioned 
me to finish the immolation. It was done; I stirred up the ashes, 
and interred them under a shovelful of coals; and she mutely, and 
with a sense of intense injury, retired to her private apartment. I 
descended to tell my master that the young lady’s qualm of sickness 
was almost gone, but I judged it best for her to lie down a while. 
She wouldn’t dine; but she reappeared at tea, pale, and red about 
the eyes, and marvellously subdued in outward aspect. Next 
morning, I answered the letter by a slip of paper, inscribed, “ Master 
Heathcliff is requested to send no more notes to Miss Linton, as 
she will not receive them.” And, thenceforth, the little boy came 
with vacant pockets. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

S UMMER drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past 
Michaelmas, but the harvest was late that year, and a few of 
our fields were still uncleared.* Mr Linton and his daughter would 
frequently walk out among the reapers; at the carrying of the last 
sheaves, they stayed till dusk, and the evening happening to be chill 
and damp, my master caught a bad cold, that settled obstinately 
on his lungs, and confined him indoors throughout the whole of the 
winter,- nearly without intermission. 

Poor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been con¬ 
siderably sadder and duller since its abandonment; and her father 
insisted on her reading less, and taking more exercise. She had his 
companionship no longer; I esteemed it a duty to supply its lack, as 
much as possible, with mine: an inefficient substitute; for I could 
only spare two or three hours, from my numerous diurnal occupa¬ 
tions, to follow her footsteps, and then my society was obviously less 
desirable than his. 

On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November — a 
fresh watery afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with 
moist, withered leaves, and the cold, blue sky was half hidden by 
clouds — dark grey streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and 
boding abundant rain — I requested my young lady to forego her 
ramble, because I was certain of showers. She refused; and I un- 

190* 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


willingly donned a cloak, and took my umbrella to accompany her 
on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a formal walk which she gen¬ 
erally affected if low-spirited — and that she invariably was when 
Mr Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing never known from 
his confession, but guessed both by her and me, from his increased 
silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went sadly on: 
there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind 
might well have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of 
my eye, I could detect her raising a hand, and brushing something 
off her cheek. I gazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. 
On one side of the road rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and 
stunted oaks, with their roots half-exposed, held uncertain tenure: 
the soil was too loose for the latter; and strong winds had blown 
some nearly horizontal. In summer, Miss Catherine delighted to 
climb along these trunks, and sit in the branches, swinging twenty 
feet above the ground; and I, pleased with her agility and her light, 
childish heart, still considered it proper to scold every time I caught 
her at such an elevation, but so that she knew there was no necessity 
for descending. From dinner to tea she would lie in her breeze- 
rocked cradle, doing nothing except singing old songs — my nursery 
lore — to herself, or watching the birds, joint tenants, feed and 
entice their young ones to fly: or nestling with closed lids, half 
thinking, half dreaming, happier than words can express. 

“ Look, miss 1 ” I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of 
one twisted tree. “ Winter is not here yet. There’s a little flower up 
yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those 
turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you climb up, and pluck it 
to show to papa ?” 

Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom trembling in its 
earthy shelter, and replied, at length — 

“No, I’ll not touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, 
Ellen?” 

“Yes,” I observed, “about as starved and sackless as you: your 
cheeks are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You’re so 
low, I daresay I shall keep up with you.” 

“No,” she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing, at 
intervals, to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or 
a fungus spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown 
foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face. 

“Catherine, why are you crying, love?” I asked, approaching 

IQI 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and putting my arm over her shoulder. “You mustn’t cry because 
papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse.” 

She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was 
stifled by sobs. 

“Oh, it will be something worse,” she said. “And what shall I 
do when papa and you leave me, and I am by myself ? I can’t for¬ 
get your words, Ellen; they are always in my ear. How life will be 
changed, how dreary the world will be, when papa and you are 
dead.” 

“None can tell, whether you won’t die before us,” I replied. 
“It’s wrong to anticipate evil. We’ll hope there are years and years 
to come before any of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and 
hardly forty-five. My mother lived till eighty, a canty dame to the 
last. And suppose Mr Linton was spared till he saw sixty, that 
would be more years than you have counted, miss. And would it 
not be foolish to mourn a calamity above twenty years beforehand ? ” 

“But aunt Isabella was younger than papa,” she remarked, 
gazing up with timid hope to seek further consolation. 

“Aunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,” I replied. 
“She wasn’t as happy as master: she hadn’t as much to live for. 
All you need do, is to wait well on your father, and cheer him by 
letting him see you cheerful; and avoid giving him anxiety on any 
subject: mind that, Cathy! I’ll not disguise but you might kill 
him, if you were wild and reckless, and cherished a foolish, fanciful 
affection for the son of a person who would be glad to have him in 
his grave; and allowed him to discover that you fretted over the 
separation he has judged it expedient to make.” 

“I fret about nothing on earth except papa’s illness,” answered 
my companion. “I care for nothing in comparison with papa. 
And I’ll never — never — oh, never, while I have my senses, do an 
act or say a word to vex him. I love him better than myself, Ellen; 
and I know it by this: I pray every night that I may live after him; 
because I would rather be miserable than that he should be: that 
proves I love him better than myself.” 

“Good words,” I replied. “But deeds must prove it also; and 
after he is well, remember you don’t forget resolutions formed in the 
hour of fear.” 

As we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road; and my 
young lady, lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated 
herself on the top of the wall, reaching over to gather some hips that 

192 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


bloomed scarlet on the summit branches of the wild rose trees, 
shadowing the highway side: the lower fruit had disappeared, but 
only birds could touch the upper, except from Cathy’s present station. 
In stretching to pull them, her hat fell off; and as the door was 
locked, she proposed scrambling down to recover it. I bid her be 
cautious lest she got a fall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the 
return was no such easy matter: the stones were smooth and neatly 
cemented, and the rose-bushes and blackberry stragglers could 
yield no assistance in re-ascending. I, like a fool, didn’t recollect 
that, till I heard her laughing and exclaiming — 

“ Ellen, you’ll have to fetch the key, or else I must run round to 
the porter’s lodge. I can’t scale the ramparts on this side ! ” 

“Stay where you are,” I answered, “I have my bundle of keys in 
my pocket: perhaps I may manage to open it; if not I’ll go.” 

Catherine amused herself with dancing to and fro before the door, 
while I tried all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, 
and found that none would do; so, repeating my desire that she 
would remain there, I was about to hurry home as fast as I could, 
when an approaching sound arrested me. It was the trot of a horse; 
Cathy’s dance stopped also. 

“Who is that?” I whispered. 

“Ellen, I wish you could open the door,” whispered back my com¬ 
panion anxiously. 

“Ho, Miss Linton 1” cried a deep voice (the rider’s), “I’m glad 
to meet you. Don’t be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation 
to ask and obtain.” 

“I shan’t speak to you, Mr Heathcliff,” answered Catherine. 
“Papa says you are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me; 
and Ellen says the same.” 

“That is nothing to the purpose,” said Heathcliff. (He it was.) 
“I don’t hate my son, I suppose; and it is concerning him that I 
demand your attention. Yes; you have cause to blush. Two or 
three months since, were you not in the habit of writing to Linton ? 
making love in play, eh? You deserved, both of you, flogging for 
that! You especially, the elder; and less sensitive, as it turns out. 
I’ve got your letters, and if you give me any pertness I’ll send them 
to your father. I presume you grew weary of the amusement and 
dropped it, didn’t you? Well, you dropped Linton with it into a 
Slough of Despond. He was in earnest: in love, really. As true 
as I live, he’s dying for you; breaking his heart at your fickleness: 

193 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


not figuratively, but actually. Though Hareton has made him a 
standing jest for six weeks, and I have used more serious measures, 
and attempted to frighten him out of his idiotcy, he gets worse daily; 
and he’ll be under the sod before summer, unless you restore him ! ” 
“How can you lie so glaringly to the poor child?” I called from 
the inside. “Pray ride on ! How can you deliberately get up such 
paltry falsehoods ? Miss Cathy, I’ll knock the lock off with a stone: 
you won’t believe that vile nonsense. You can feel in yourself, it is 
impossible that a person should die for love of a stranger.” 

“I was not aware there were eavesdroppers,” muttered the de¬ 
tected villain. “Worthy Mrs Dean, I like you, but I don’t like your 
double-dealing,” he added aloud. “How could you lie so glaringly, 
as to affirm I hated the ‘poor child’? and invent bugbear stories 
to terrify her from my door-stones? Catherine Linton (the very 
name warms me), my bonnie lass, I shall be from home all this week; 
go and see if I have not spoken truth: do, there’s a darling! Just 
imagine your father in my place, and Linton in yours; then think 
how you would value your careless lover if he refused to stir a step 
to comfort you, when your father himself entreated him; and don’t, 
from pure stupidity, fall into the same error. I swear, on my sal¬ 
vation, he’s going to his grave, and none but you can save him! ” 
The lock gave way and I issued out. 

“I swear Linton is dying,” repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at 
me. “And grief and disappointment are hastening his death. 
Nelly, if you won’t let her go, you can walk over yourself. But I 
shall not return till this time next week; and I think your master 
himself would scarcely object to her visiting her cousin !” 

“Come in,” said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half-forcing her 
to re-enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features 
of the speaker, too stern to express his inward deceit. 

He pushed his horse close, and, bending down, observed — 
“Miss Catherine, I’ll own to you that I have little patience with 
Linton; and Hareton and Joseph have less. I’ll own that he’s with 
a harsh set. He pines for kindness, as well as love; and a kind word 
from you would be his best medicine. Don’t mind Mrs Dean’s 
cruel cautions; but be generous, and contrive to see him. He 
dreams of you day and night, and cannot be persuaded that you don’t 
hate him, since you neither write nor call.” 

I closed the door, and rolled a stone to assist the loosened lock in 
holding it; and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge under- 

194 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


neath: for the rain began to drive through the moaning branches 
of the trees, and warned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented 
any comment on the encounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched 
towards home; but I divined instinctively that Catherine’s heart 
was clouded now in double darkness. Her features were so sad, 
they did not seem hers: she evidently regarded what she had heard 
as every syllable true. 

The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole 
to his room to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She re¬ 
turned, and asked me to sit with her in the library. We took our 
tea together; and afterwards she lay down on the rug, and told me 
not to talk, for she was weary. I got a book, and pretended to read. 
As soon as she supposed me absorbed in my occupation, she re¬ 
commenced her silent weeping: it appeared, at present, her favourite 
diversion. I suffered her to enjoy it a while; then I expostulated: 
deriding and ridiculing all Mr Hegithcliff’s assertions about his son, 
as if I were certain she would coincide. Alas! I hadn’t skill to 
counteract the effect his account had produced: it was just what he 
intended. 

“You may be right, Ellen,” she answered; “but I shall never feel 
at ease till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I 
don’t write, and convince him that I shall not change.” 

What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity ? 
We parted that night — hostile; but next day beheld me on the 
road to Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress’s 
pony. I couldn’t bear to witness her sorrow: to see her pale de¬ 
jected countenance, and heavy eyes; and I yielded, in the faint hope 
that Linton himself might prove, by his reception of us, how little of 
the tale was founded on fact. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


HE rainy night had ushered in a misty morning — half-frost, 



X half-drizzle — and temporary brooks crossed our path — 
gurgling from the uplands. My feet were thoroughly wetted; I 
was cross and low; exactly the humour suited for making the most 
of these disagreeable things. We entered the farm-house by the 
kitchen way, to ascertain whether Mr Heathcliff were really absent; 
because I put slight faith in his own affirmation. 


195 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Joseph seemed sitting in a sort of elysium alone, beside a roaring 
fire; a quart of ale on the table near him, bristling with large pieces 
of toasted oat-cake; and his black, short pipe in his mouth. Cath¬ 
erine ran to the hearth to warm herself. I asked if the master was 
in ? My question remained so long unanswered, that I thought the 
old man had grown deaf, and repeated it louder. 

“Na— ay!” he snarled, or rather screamed through his nose. 
“Na — ay! yah muh goa back whear yah coom frough.” 

“Joseph!” cried a peevish voice, simultaneously with me, from 
the inner room. “How often am I to call you? There are only a 
few red ashes now. Joseph ! come this moment.” 

Vigorous puffs, and a resolute stare into the grate declared he 
had no ear for this appeal. The housekeeper and Hareton were 
invisible; one gone on an errand, and the other at his work, proba¬ 
bly. We knew Linton’s tones, and entered. 

“ Oh, I hope you’ll die in a garret! starved to death,” said the boy, 
mistaking our approach for that of his negligent attendant. 

He stopped, on observing his error; his cousin flew to him. 

“Is that you, Miss Linton?” he said, raising his head from the 
arm of the great chair, in which he reclined. “No — don’t kiss me: 
it takes my breath. Dear me! Papa said you would call,” con¬ 
tinued he, after recovering a little from Catherine’s embrace; while 
she stood by looking very contrite. “Will you shut the door, if 
you please? you left it open; and those — those detestable creatures 
won’t bring coals to the fire. It’s so cold!” 

I stirred up the cinders, and fetched a scuttleful myself. The 
invalid complained of being covered with ashes; but he had a tire¬ 
some cough, and looked feverish and ill, so I did not rebuke his 
temper. 

“Well, Linton,” murmured Catherine, when his corrugated brow 
relaxed. “ Are you glad to see me ? Can I do you any good ? ” 

“Why didn’t you come before?” he asked. “You should have 
come, instead of writing. It tired me dreadfully, writing those long 
letters. I’d far rather have talked to you. Now, I can neither 
bear to talk, nor anything else. I wonder where Zillah is! Will 
you (looking at me) step into the kitchen and see?” 

I had received no thanks for my other service; and being unwill¬ 
ing to run to and fro at his behest, I replied — 

“Nobody is out there but Joseph.” 

“I want to drink,” he exclaimed fretfully, turning away. “Zillah 

196 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


is constantly gadding off to Gimmerton since papa went: it’s 
miserable! And I’m obliged to come down here — they resolved 
never to hear me upstairs.” 

“Is your father attentive to you, Master Heathcliff?” I asked, 
perceiving Catherine to be checked in her friendly advances. 

“Attentive? He makes them a little more attentive at least,” 
he cried. “The wretches ! Do you know, Miss Linton, that brute 
Hareton laughs at me ! I hate him ! indeed, I hate them all: they 
are odious beings.” 

Cathy began searching for some water; she lighted on a pitcher 
in the dresser, filled a tumbler, and brought it. He bid her add a 
spoonful of wine from a bottle on the table; and having swallowed 
a small portion, appeared more tranquil, and said she was very 
kind. 

“And are you glad to see me?” asked she, reiterating her former 
question, and pleased to detect the faint dawn of a smile. 

“Yes, I am. It’s something new to hear a voice like yours!” 
he replied. “But I have been vexed, because you wouldn’t come. 
And papa swore it was owing to me: he called me a pitiful, shuffling, 
worthless thing; and said you despised me; and if he had been in 
my place, he would be more the master of the Grange than your 
father, by this time. But you don’t despise me, do you, Miss”- 

“I wish you would say Catherine, or Cathy,” interrupted my 
young lady. “Despise you? No! Next to papa and Ellen, I 
love you better than anybody living. I don’t love Mr Heathcliff, 
though; and I dare not come when he returns; will he stay away 
many days?” 

“Not many,” answered Linton; “but he goes on to the moors 
frequently, since the shooting season commenced; and you might 
spend an hour or two with me in his absence. Do say you will. I 
think I should not be peevish with you: you’d not provoke me, and 
you’d always be ready to help me, wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes,” said Catherine, stroking his long soft hair; “if I could 
only get papa’s consent, I’d spend half my time with you. Pretty 
Linton ! I wish you were my brother.” 

“And then you would like me as well as your father?” observed 
he, more cheerfully. “But papa says you would love me better 
than him and all the world, if you were my wife; so I’d rather you 
were that.” 

“No, I should never love anybody better than papa,” she returned 

197 



I 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 

gravely. “And people hate their wives, sometimes; but not their 
sisters and brothers: and if you were the latter you would live with 
us, and papa would be as fond of you as he is of me.” 

Linton denied that people ever hated their wives; but Cathy 
affirmed they did, and, in her wisdom, instanced his own father’s 
aversion to her aunt. I endeavoured to stop her thoughtless tongue. 
I couldn’t succeed till everything she knew was out. Master Heath- 
cliff, much irritated, asserted her relation was false. 

“Papa told me; and papa does not tell falsehoods,” she answered 
pertly. 

“My papa scorns yours!” cried Linton. “He calls him a sneak¬ 
ing fool.” 

“Yours is a wicked man,” retorted Catherine; “and you are very 
naughty to dare to repeat what he says. He must be wicked to 
have made Aunt Isabella leave him as she did.” 

“She didn’t leave him,” said the boy; “you shan’t contradict 
me.” 

“She did,” cried my young lady. 

“Well, I’ll tell you something!” said Linton. “Your mother 
hated your father: now then.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Catherine, too enraged to continue. 

“And she loved mine,” added he. 

“You little liar! I hate you now!” she panted, and her face 
grew red with passion. 

“She did! she did!” sang Linton, sinking into the recess of his 
chair, and leaning back his head to enjoy the agitation of the other 
disputant, who stood behind. 

“Hush, Master Heathcliff!” I said; “that’s your father’s tale, 
too, I suppose.” 

“It isn’t: you hold your tongue!” he answered. “She did, she 
did, Catherine! she did, she did !” 

Cathy, beside herself, gave the chair a violent push, and caused 
him to fall against one arm. He was immediately seized by a suffo¬ 
cating cough that soon ended his triumph. It lasted so long that 
it frightened even me. As to his cousin, she wept, with all her 
might; aghast at the mischief she had done: though she said noth¬ 
ing. I held him till the fit exhausted itself. Then he thrust me 
away, and leant his head down silently. Catherine quelled her 
lamentations also, took a seat opposite, and looked solemnly into 
the fire. 


* 


198 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“How do you feel now, Master Heathcliff?” I inquired, after 
waiting ten minutes. 

“I wish she felt as I do,” he replied: “spiteful, cruel thing! 
Hareton never touches me: he never struck me in his life. And I 
was better to-day: and there”-his voice died in a whimper. 

“I didn’t strike you!” muttered Cathy, chewing her lip to pre¬ 
vent another burst of emotion. 

He sighed and moaned like one under great suffering, and kept 
it up for a quarter of an hour; on purpose to distress his cousin 
apparently, for whenever he caught a stiffed sob from her he put 
renewed pain and pathos into the inflections of his voice. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Linton,” she said at length, racked be¬ 
yond endurance. “But / couldn’t have been hurt by that little 
push, and I had no idea that you could, either: you’re not much, 
are you, Linton? Don’t let me go home thinking I’ve done you 
harm. Answer! speak to me.” 

“I can’t speak to you,” he murmured; “you’ve hurt me so, that 
I shall lie awake all night choking with this cough. If you had it 
you’d know what it was; but you'll be comfortably asleep while I’m 
in agony, and nobody near me. I wonder how you would like to 
pass those fearful nights!” And he began to wail aloud, for very 
pity of himself. 

“Since you are in the habit of passing dreadful nights,” I said, “it 
won’t be miss who spoils your ease: you’d be the same had she never 
come. However, she shall not disturb you again; and perhaps 
you’ll get quieter when we leave you.” 

“Must I go?” asked Catherine dolefully, bending over him. 
“Do you want me to go, Linton?” 

“You can’t alter what you’ve done,” he replied pettishly, shrink¬ 
ing from her, “unless you alter it for the worse by teasing me into 
a fever.” 

“Well, then, I must go?” she repeated. 

“Let me alone, at least,” said he; “I can’t bear your talking.” 

She lingered, and resisted my persuasions to departure a tiresome 
while; but as he neither looked up nor spoke, she finally made a 
movement to the door and I followed. We were recalled by a 
scream. Linton had slid from his seat on to the hearthstone, and 
lay writhing in the mere perverseness of an indulged plague of a 
child, determined to be as grievous and harassing as it can. I thor¬ 
oughly gauged his disposition from his behaviour, and saw at once 

199 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


it would be folly to attempt humouring him. Not so my companion: 
she ran back in terror, knelt down, and cried, and soothed, and en¬ 
treated, till he grew quiet from lack of breath: by no means from 
compunction at distressing her. 

“I shall lift him on the settle,” I said, “and he may roll about as 
he pleases: we can’t stop to watch him. I hope you are satisfied, 
Miss Cathy, that you are not the person to benefit him; and that 
his condition of health is not occasioned by attachment to you. 
Now, then, there he is! Come away: as soon as he knows there 
is nobody by to care for his nonsense, he’ll be glad to lie still.” 

She placed a cushion under his head, and offered him some water; 
he rejected the latter, and tossed uneasily on the former, as if it were 
a stone or a block of wood. She tried to put it more comfortably. 

“I can’t do with that,” he said; “ it’s not high enough.” 

Catherine brought another to lay above it. 

“That’s too high,” murmured the provoking thing. 

“How must I arrange it, then?” she asked despairingly. 

He twined himself up to her, as she half knelt by the settle, and 
converted her shoulder into a support. 

“No, that won’t do,” I said. “You’ll be content with the cush¬ 
ion, Master Heathcliff. Miss has wasted too much time on you 
already: we cannot remain five minutes longer.” 

“Yes, yes, we can!” replied Cathy. “He’s good and patient 
now. He’s beginning to think I shall have far greater misery than 
he will to-night, if I believe he is the worse for my visit; and then 
I dare not come again. Tell the truth about it, Linton; for I 
mustn’t come, if I have hurt you.” 

“You must come, to cure me,” he answered. “You ought to 
come, because you have hurt me: you know you have extremely! 
I was not as ill when you entered as I am at present — was I?” 

“But you’ve made yourself ill by crying and being in a passion.” 

“I didn’t do it all,” said his cousin. “However, we’ll be friends 
now. And you want me: you would wish to see me sometimes, 
really?” 

“I told you I did,” he replied impatiently. “Sit on the settle 
and let me lean on your knee. That’s as mamma used to do, whole 
afternoons together. Sit quite still and don’t talk: but you may 
sing a song, if you can sing; or you may say a nice long interesting 
ballad — one of those you promised to teach me; or a story. I’d 
rather have a ballad, though: begin.” 

200 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Catherine repeated the longest she could remember. The em¬ 
ployment pleased both mightily. Linton would have another; and 
after that another, notwithstanding my strenuous objections; and 
so they went on until the clock struck twelve, and we heard Hareton 
in the court, returning for his dinner. 

“ And to-morrow, Catherine, will you be here to-morrow?” asked 
young Heathcliff, holding her frock as she rose reluctantly. 

“No,” I answered, “nor next day neither.” She, however, gave 
a different response evidently, for his forehead cleared as she stooped 
and whispered in his ear. 

“You won’t go to-morrow, recollect, miss!” I commenced, 
when we were out of the house. “You are not dreaming of it, are 
you?” 

She smiled. 

“Oh, I’ll take good care,” I continued: “I’ll have that lock 
mended, and you can escape by no way else.” 

“I can get over the wall,” she said, laughing. “The Grange is 
not a prison, Ellen, and you are not my gaoler. And besides, I’m 
almost seventeen: I’m a woman. And I’m certain Linton would 
recover qiffckly if he had me to look after him. I’m older than he 
is, you know, and wiser: less childish, am I not? And he’ll soon 
do as I direct him, with some slight coaxing. He’s a pretty little 
darling when he’s good. I’d make such a pet of him, if he were 
mine. We should never quarrel, should we, after we were used to 
each other? Don’t you like him, Ellen?” 

“Like him !” I exclaimed. “The worst-tempered bit of a sickly 
slip that ever struggled into its teens. Happily, as Mr Heathcliff 
conjectured, he’ll not win twenty. I doubt whether he’ll see spring, 
indeed. And small loss to his family whenever he drops off. And 
lucky it is for us that his father took him: the kinder he was treated, 
the more tedious and selfish he’d be. I’m glad you have no chance 
of having him for a husband, Miss Catherine.” 

My companion waxed serious at hearing this speech. To speak 
of his death so regardlessly, wounded her feelings. 

“He’s younger than I,” she answered, after a protracted pause of 
meditation, “and he ought to live the longest: he will — he must 
live as long as I do. He’s as strong now as when he first came into 
the north; I’m positive of that. It’s only a cold that ails him, the 
same as papa has. You say papa will get better, and why shouldn’t 
he?” 


201 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Well, well,” I cried, “after all, we needn’t trouble ourselves; 
for listen, miss, and mind, I’ll keep my word, — if you attempt go¬ 
ing to Wuthering Heights again, with or without me, I shall inform 
Mr Linton, and, unless he allow it, the intimacy with your cousin 
must not be revived.” 

“It has been revived,” muttered Cathy sulkily. 

“Must not be continued, then,” I said. 

“We’ll see,” was her reply, and she set off at a gallop, leaving me 
to toil in the rear. 

We both reached home before our dinner-time; my master sup¬ 
posed we had been wandering through the park, and therefore he 
demanded no explanation of our absence. As soon as I entered, 
I hastened to change my soaked shoes and stockings; but sitting 
such a while at the Heights had done the mischief. On the succeed¬ 
ing morning I was laid up, and during three weeks I remained in¬ 
capacitated for attending to my duties: a calamity never experienced 
prior to that period, and never, I am thankful to say, since. 

My little mistress behaved like an angel, in coming to wait on me, 
and cheer my solitude: the confinement brought me exceedingly 
low. It is wearisome, to a stirring active body: buf few have 
slighter reasons for complaint than I had. The moment Catherine 
left Mr Linton’s room, she appeared at my bedside. Her day was 
divided between us; no amusement usurped a minute: she neglected 
her meals, her studies, and her play; and she was the fondest nurse 
that ever watched. She must have had a warm heart, when she 
loved her father so, to give so much to me. I said her days were 
divided between us; but the master retired early, and I generally 
needed nothing after six o’clock; thus the evening was her own. 
Poor thing! I never considered what she did with herself after tea. 
And though frequently, when she looked in to bid me good-night, I 
remarked a fresh colour in her cheeks and a pinkness over her slender 
fingers, instead of fancying the hue borrowed from a cold ride across 
the moors, I laid it to the charge of a hot fire in the library. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A T the close of three weeks, I was able to quit my chamber, and 
move about the house. And on the first occasion of my sit¬ 
ting up in the evening, I asked Catherine to read to me, because my 

202 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


eyes were weak. We were in the library, the master having gone 
to bed: she consented, rather unwillingly, I fancied; and imagin¬ 
ing my sort of books did not suit her, I bid her place herself in the 
choice of what she perused. She selected one of her own favourites, 
and got forward steadily about an hour; then came frequent ques¬ 
tions. 

“Ellen, are not you tired? Hadn’t you better lie down now? 
You’ll be sick, keeping up so long, Ellen.” 

“No, no, dear, I’m not tired,” I returned continually. 

Perceiving me immovable, she essayed another method of show¬ 
ing her disrelish for her occupation. It changed to yawning, and 
stretching, and — 

“Ellen, I’m tired.” 

“Give over then and talk,” I answered. 

That was worse: she fretted and sighed, and looked at her watch 
till eight, and finally went to her room, completely over-done with 
sleep; judging by her peevish, heavy look, and the constant rub¬ 
bing she inflicted on her eyes. The following night she seemed 
more impatient still; and on the third from recovering my company, 
she complained of a headache, and left me. I thought her conduct 
odd; and having remained alone a long while, I resolved on going 
and inquiring whether she were better, and asking her to come and 
lie on the sofa, instead of upstairs in the dark. No Catherine could 
I discover upstairs, and none below. The servants affirmed they 
had not seen her. I listened at Mr Edgar’s door; all was silence. 
I returned to her apartment, extinguished my candle, and seated 
myself in the window. 

The moon shone bright; a sprinkling of snow covered the ground, 
and I reflected that she might, possibly, have taken it into her head 
to walk about the garden, for refreshment. I did detect a figure 
creeping along the inner fence of the park; but it was not my young 
mistress: on its merging into the light, I recognised one of the 
grooms. He stood a considerable period, viewing the carriage-road 
through the grounds; then started off at a brisk pace, as if he had 
detected something, and reappeared presently, leading miss’s pony; 
and there she was, just dismounted, and walking by its side. The 
man took his charge stealthily across the grass towards the stable. 
Cathy entered by the casement-window of the drawing-room, and 
glided noiselessly up to where I awaited her. ■ She put the door 
gently to, slipped off her snowy shoes, untied her hat, and was pro- 

203 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


ceeding, unconscious of my espionage, to lay aside her mantle, when 
I suddenly rose and revealed myself. The surprise petrified her an 
instant: she uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and stood fixed. 

“My dear Miss Catherine,” I began, too vividly impressed by her 
recent kindness to break into a scold, “where have you been riding 
out at this hour ? And why should you try to deceive me, by telling 
a tale? Where have you been? Speak.” 

“To the bottom of the park,” she stammered. “I didn’t tell a 
tale.” 

“And nowhere else?” I demanded. 

“No,” was the muttered reply. 

“Oh, Catherine!” I cried sorrowfully. “You know you have 
been doing wrong, or you wouldn’t be driven to uttering an untruth 
to me. That does grieve me. I’d rather be three months ill, than 
hear you frame a deliberate lie.” 

She sprang forward, and bursting into tears, threw her arms round 
my neck. 

“Well, Ellen, I’m so afraid of you being angry,” she said. 
“Promise not to be angry, and you shall know the very truth: I 
hate to hide it.” 

We sat down in the window-seat; I assured her I would not scold, 
whatever her secret might be, and I guessed it of course; so she 
commenced — 

“I’ve been to Wuthering Heights, Ellen, and I’ve never missed 
going a day since you fell ill; except thrice before, and twice after 
you left your room. I gave Michael books and pictures to prepare 
Minny every evening, and to put her back in the stable: you mustn’t 
scold him either, mind. I was at the Heights by half-past six, and 
generally stayed till half-past eight, and then galloped home. It 
was not to amuse myself that I went: I was often wretched all the 
time. Now and then I was happy: once in a week perhaps. At 
first, I expected there would be sad work persuading you to let me 
keep my word to Linton: for I had engaged to call again next day, 
when we quitted him; but, as you stayed upstairs on the morrow, 
I escaped that trouble. While Michael was refastening the lock of 
the park door in the afternoon, I got possession of the key, and told 
him how my cousin wished me to visit him, because he was sick, 
and couldn’t come to the Grange; and how papa would object to 
my going: and then I negotiated with him about the pony. He is 
fond of reading, and he thinks of leaving soon to get married; so he 

204 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


offered, if I would lend him books out of the library, to do what I 
wished: but I preferred giving him my own, and that satisfied him 
better. 

“On my second visit, Linton seemed in lively spirits; and Zillah 
(that is their housekeeper) made us a clean room and a good fire, 
and told us that, as Joseph was out at a prayer-meeting and Hareton 
Earnshaw was off with his dogs — robbing our woods of pheasants, 
as I heard afterwards — we might do what we liked. She brought 
me some warm wine and gingerbread, and appeared exceedingly 
good-natured; and Linton sat in the arm-chair, and I in the little 
rocking-chair on the hearth-stone, and we laughed and talked so 
merrily, and found so much to say: we planned where we would go, 
and what we would do in summer. I needn’t repeat that, because 
you would call it silly. 

“One time, however, we were near quarrelling. He said the 
pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morn¬ 
ing till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with 
the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks 
singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining 
steadily and cloudlessly. That was his most perfect idea of heaven’s 
happiness: mine was rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west 
wind blowing, and bright white clouds flitting rapidly above; and 
not only larks, but throstles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuck¬ 
oos pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a dis¬ 
tance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long 
grass undulating in waves to the breeze; and woods and sounding 
water, and the whole world awake and wild with joy. He wanted 
all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance 
in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive; 
and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall asleep in his; 
and he said he could not breathe in mine, and began to grow very 
snappish. At last, we agreed to try both, as soon as the right 
weather came; and then we kissed each other and were friends. 

“After sitting still an hour, I looked at the great room with its 
smooth uncarpeted floor, and thought how nice it would be to play 
in, if we removed the table; and I asked Linton to call Zillah in to 
help us, and we’d have a game at blind-man’s buff; she should try 
to catch us: you used to, you know, Ellen. He wouldn’t: there 
was no pleasure in it, he said; but he consented to play at ball with 
me. We found two in a cupboard, among a heap of old toys, tops, 

205 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and hoops, and battledores, and shuttlecocks. One was marked 
C., and the other H.; I wished to have the C., because that stood 
for Catherine, and the H. might be for Heathcliff, his name; but 
the bran came out of H., and Linton didn’t like it. I beat him con¬ 
stantly, and he got cross again, and coughed, and returned to his 
chair. That night, though, he easily recovered his good humour: 
he was charmed with two or three pretty songs — your songs, 
Ellen; and when I was obliged to go, he begged and entreated me 
to come the following evening; and I promised. Minny and I 
went flying home as light as air; and I dreamt of Wuthering Heights 
and my sweet, darling cousin, till morning. 

“On the morrow I was sad; partly because you were poorly, and 
partly that I wished my father knew, and approved of my excur¬ 
sions : but it was beautiful moonlight after tea; and, as I rode on, 
the gloom cleared. I shall have another happy evening, I thought 
to myself; and what delights me more, my pretty Linton will. I 
trotted up their garden, and was turning round to the back, when 
that fellow Earnshaw met me, took my bridle, and bid me go in by 
the front entrance. He patted Minny’s neck, and said she was a 
bonny beast, and appeared as if he wanted me to speak to him. I 
only told him to leave my horse alone, or else it would kick him. 
He answered in his vulgar accent, ‘It wouldn’t do mitch hurt if it 
did;’ and surveyed its legs with a smile. I was half inclined to 
make it try; however, he moved off to open the door, and, as he 
raised the latch, he looked up to the inscription above, and said, 
with a stupid mixture of awkwardness and elation — 

“‘Miss Catherine! I can read yon, now.’ 

“‘Wonderful,’ I exclaimed. ‘Pray let us hear you — you are 
grown clever! ’ 

“He spelt, and drawled over by syllables, the name — ‘Hareton 
Earnshaw.’ 

“‘And the figures?’ I cried encouragingly, perceiving that he 
came to a dead halt. 

“‘I cannot tell them yet,’ he answered. 

“‘Oh, you dunce !’ I said, laughing heartily at his failure. 

“The fool stared, with a grin hovering about his lips, and a scowl 
gathering over his eyes, as if uncertain whether he might not join in 
my mirth: whether it were not pleasant familiarity, or what it really 
was, contempt. I settled his doubts, by suddenly retrieving my 
gravity and desiring him to walk away, for I came to see Linton, 

206 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


not him. He reddened — I saw that by the moonlight — dropped 
his hand from the latch, and skulked off, a picture of mortified van¬ 
ity. He imagined himself to be as accomplished as Linton, I sup¬ 
pose, because he could spell his own name; and was marvellously 
discomfited that I didn’t think the same.” 

“Stop, Miss Catherine, dear I” I interrupted. “I shall not 
scold, but I don’t like your conduct there. If you had remembered 
that Hareton was your cousin as much as Master Heathcliff, you 
would have felt how improper it was to behave in that way. At 
least, it was praiseworthy ambition for him to desire to be as accom¬ 
plished as Linton; and probably he did not learn merely to show 
off: you had made him ashamed of his ignorance before, I have no 
doubt; and he wished to remedy it and please you. To sneer at his 
imperfect attempt was very bad breeding. Had you been brought 
up in his circumstances, would you be less rude ? He was as quick 
and as intelligent a child as ever you were; and I’m hurt that he 
should be despised now, because that base Heathcliff has treated 
him so unjustly.” 

“Well, Ellen, you won’t cry about it, will you?” she exclaimed, 
surprised at my earnestness. “But wait, and you shall hear if he 
conned his A B C to please me; and if it were worth while being 
civil to the brute. I entered; Linton was lying on the settle, and 
half got up to welcome me. 

“‘I’m ill to-night, Catherine, love,’ he said; ‘and you must have 
all the talk, and let me listen. Come, and sit by me. I was sure 
you wouldn’t break your word, and I’ll make you promise again, 
before you go.’ 

“I knew now that I mustn’t tease him, as he was ill; and I spoke 
softly and put no questions, and avoided irritating him in any way. 
I had brought some of my nicest books for him; he asked me to 
read a little of one, and I was about to comply, when Earnshaw 
burst the door open: having gathered venom with reflection. He 
advanced direct to us, seized Linton by the arm, and swung him off 
the seat. 

“‘Get to thy own room!’ he said, in a voice almost inarticulate 
with passion; and his face looked swelled and furious. ‘Take her 
there if she comes to see thee: thou shalln’t keep me out of this. 
Begone wi’ ye both ! ’ 

“He swore at us, and left Linton no time to answer, nearly throw¬ 
ing him into the kitchen; and he clenched his fist as I followed, 

207 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


seemingly longing to knock me down. I was afraid for a moment, 
and I let one volume fall; he kicked it after me, and shut us out. 
I heard a malignant, crackly laugh by the fire, and turning, beheld 
that odious Joseph standing rubbing his bony hands, and quivering. 

“‘I wer sure he’d sarve ye out! He’s a grand lad ! He’s getten 
t’ raight sperrit in him! He knaws — Ay, he knaws, as weel as I 
do, who sud be t’ maister yonder — Ech, ech, ech! He made ye 
skift properly! Ech, ech, ech ! ’ 

“‘Where must we go?’ I asked of my cousin, disregarding the 
old wretch’s mockery. 

“Linton was white and trembling. He was not pretty then, 
Ellen: oh no! he looked frightful; for his thin face and large eyes 
were wrought into an expression of frantic, powerless fury. He 
grasped the handle of the door, and shook it: it was fastened inside. 

“‘If you don’t let me in, I’ll kill you! — If you don’t let me in, 
I’ll kill you! ’ he rather shrieked than said. ‘ Devil! devil! — I’ll 
kill you — I’ll kill you ! ’ 

“Joseph uttered his croaking laugh again. 

“‘Thear, that’s t’ father!’ he cried. ‘That’s father! We’ve 
alias summut o’ either side in us. Niver heed, Hareton, lad — 
dunnut be ’feard — he cannot get at thee ! ’ 

“I took hold of Linton’s hands, and tried to pull him away; but 
he shrieked so shockingly that I dared not proceed. At last his 
cries were choked by a dreadful fit of coughing; blood gushed from 
his mouth, and he fell on the ground. I ran into the yard, sick with 
terror; and called for Zillah, as loud as I could. She soon heard 
me: she was milking the cows in a shed behind the barn, and hurry¬ 
ing from her work, she inquired what there was to do? I hadn’t 
breath to explain; dragging her in, I looked about for Linton. 
Earnshaw had come out to examine the mischief he had caused, 
and he was then conveying the poor thing upstairs. Zillah and I 
ascended after him; but he stopped me at the top of the steps, and 
said I shouldn’t go in: I must go home. I exclaimed that he had 
killed Linton, and I would enter. Joseph locked the door, and de¬ 
clared I should do ‘no sich stuff,’ and asked me whether I were 
‘bahn to be as mad as him.’ I stood crying, till the housekeeper 
reappeared. She affirmed he would be better in a bit, but he 
couldn’t do with that shrieking and din; and she took me, and nearly 
carried me into the house. 

“Ellen, I was ready to tear my hair off my head! I sobbed and 

208 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


wept so that my eyes were almost blind; and the ruffian you have 
such sympathy with stood opposite: presuming every now and then 
to bid me ‘wisht,’ and denying that it was his fault; and, finally, 
frightened by my assertions that I would tell papa, and that he 
should be put in prison and hanged, he commenced blubbering him¬ 
self, and hurried out to hide his cowardly agitation. Still, I was 
not rid of him: when at length they compelled me to depart, and I 
had got some hundred yards off the premises, he suddenly issued 
from the shadow of the roadside, and checked Minny and took hold 
of me. 

‘“Miss Catherine, I’m ill grieved,’ he began, ‘but it’s rayther too 
bad’- 

“I gave him a cut with my whip, thinking perhaps he would 
murder me. He let go, thundering one of his horrid curses, and I 
galloped home more than half out of my senses. 

“I didn’t bid you good night that evening, and I didn’t go to 
Wuthering Heights the next: I wished to go exceedingly; but I 
was strangely excited, and dreaded to hear that Linton was dead, 
sometimes; and sometimes shuddered at the thought of encounter¬ 
ing Hareton. On the third day I took courage: at least, I couldn’t 
bear longer suspense, and stole off once more. I went at five o’clock, 
and walked; fancying I might manage to creep into the house, and 
up to Linton’s room, unobserved. However, the dogs gave notice 
of my approach. Zillah received me, and saying, ‘the lad was 
mending nicely,’ showed me into a small, tidy, carpeted apartment, 
where, to my inexpressible joy, I beheld Linton laid on a little sofa, 
reading one of my books. But he would neither speak to me nor 
look at me, through a whole hour, Ellen: he has such an unhappy 
temper. And what quite confounded me, when he did open his 
mouth, it was to utter the falsehood that I had occasioned the up¬ 
roar, and Hareton was not to blame ! Unable to reply, except pas¬ 
sionately, I got up and walked from the room. He sent after me 
a faint ‘ Catherine ! ’ He did not reckon on being answered so: but 
I wouldn’t turn back; and the morrow was the second day on which 
I stayed at home, nearly determined to visit him no more. But it 
was so miserable going to bed and getting up, and never hearing 
anything about him, that my resolution melted into air before it 
was properly formed. It had appeared wrong to take the journey 
once; now it seemed wrong to refrain. Michael came to ask if he 
must saddle Minny; I said ‘Yes,’ and considered myself doing a 

209 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


duty as she bore me over the hills. I was forced to pass the front 
windows to get to the court: it was no use trying to conceal my 
presence. 

Young master is in the house,’ said Zillah, as she saw me mak¬ 
ing for the parlour. I went in; Earnshaw was there also, but he 
quitted the room directly. Linton sat in the great arm-chair half 
asleep; walking up to the fire, I began in a serious tone, partly mean¬ 
ing it to be true — 

“‘As you don’t like me, Linton, and as you think I come on pur¬ 
pose to hurt you, and pretend that I do so every time, this is our last 
meeting: let us say good-bye; and tell Mr Heathcliff that you have 
no wish to see me, and that he mustn’t invent any more falsehoods 
on the subject.’ 

“ ‘Sit down and take your hat off, Catherine,’ he answered. ‘You 
are so much happier than I am, you ought to be better. Papa talks 
enough of my defects, and shows enough scorn of me, to make it 
natural I should doubt myself. I doubt whether I am not alto¬ 
gether as worthless as he calls me, frequently; and then I feel so 
cross and bitter, I hate everybody! I am worthless, and bad in 
temper, and bad in spirit, almost always; and, if you choose, you 
may say good-bye: you’ll get rid of an annoyance. Only, Cather¬ 
ine, do me this justice: believe that if I might be as sweet, and as 
kind, and as good as you are, I would be; as willingly, and more 
so, than as happy and as healthy. And believe that your kindness 
has made me love you deeper than if I deserved your love: and 
though I couldn’t, and cannot help showing my nature to you, I 
regret it and repent it; and shall regret and repent it till I die! ’ 

“I felt he spoke the truth; and I felt I must forgive him: and, 
though he should quarrel the next moment, I must forgive him again. 
We were reconciled; but we cried, both of us, the whole time I 
stayed: not entirely for sorrow; yet I was sorry Linton had that 
distorted nature. He’ll never let his friends be at ease, and he’ll 
never be at ease himself! I have always gone to his little parlour, 
since that night; because his father returned the day after. 

“About three times, I think, we have been merry and hopeful, 
as we were the first evening; the rest of my visits were dreary and 
troubled : now with his selfishness and spite, and now with his suffer¬ 
ings: but I’ve learned to endure the former with nearly as little 
resentment as the latter. Mr Heathcliff purposely avoids me: I 
have hardly seen him at all. Last Sunday, indeed, coming earlier 

210 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


than usual, I heard him abusing poor Linton, cruelly, for his con¬ 
duct of the night before. I can’t tell how he knew of it, unless he 
listened. Linton had certainly behaved provokingly: however, it 
was the business of nobody but me, and I interrupted Mr Heath- 
cliff’s lecture by entering and telling him so. He burst into a laugh, 
and went away, saying he was glad I took that view of the matter. 
Since then, I’ve told Linton he must whisper his bitter things. Now, 
Ellen, you have heard all. I can’t be prevented from going to 
Wuthering Heights, except by inflicting misery on two people; 
whereas, if you’ll only not tell papa, my going need disturb the tran¬ 
quillity of none. You’ll not tell, will you ? It will be very heartless 
if you do.” 

“I’ll make up my mind on that point by to-morrow, Miss Cath¬ 
erine,” I replied. “It requires some study; and so I’ll leave you 
to your rest, and go think it over.” 

I thought it over aloud, in my master’s presence; walking straight 
from her room to his, and relating the whole story: with the excep¬ 
tion of her conversations with her cousin, and any mention of Hare- 
ton. Mr Linton was alarmed and distressed, more than he would 
acknowledge to me. In the morning, Catherine learnt my betrayal 
of her confidence, and she learnt also that her secret visits were to 
end. In vain she wept and writhed against the interdict, and im¬ 
plored her father to have pity on Linton: all she got to comfort her 
was a promise that he would write and give him leave to come to 
the Grange when he pleased; but explaining that he must no longer 
expect to see Catherine at Wuthering Heights. Perhaps, had he 
been aware of his nephew’s disposition and state of health, he would 
have seen fit to withhold even that slight consolation. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

T HESE things happened last winter, sir,” said Mrs Dean; 
“hardly more than a year ago. Last winter, I did not 
think, at another twelve months’ end, I should be amusing a stranger 
to the family with relating them! Yet, who knows how long you’ll 
be a stranger? You’re too young to rest always contented, living 
by yourself; and I some way fancy no one could see Catherine Lin¬ 
ton and not love her. You smile; but why do you look so lively 


21 I 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and interested, when I talk about her? and why have you asked 
me to hang her picture over your fire-place ? and why ”- 

“Stop, my good friend !” I cried. “It may be very possible that 
/ should love her; but would she love me? I doubt it too much 
to venture my tranquillity by running into temptation: and then 
my home is not here. I’m of the busy world, and to its arms I must 
return. Go on. Was Catherine obedient to her father’s com¬ 
mands?” 

“She was,” continued the housekeeper. “Her affection for him 
was still the chief sentiment in her heart; and he spoke without 
anger: he spoke in the deep tenderness of one about to leave his 
treasure amid perils and foes, where his remembered words would 
be the only aid that he could bequeath to guide her. He said to 
me, a few days afterwards — 

“‘I wish my nephew would write, Ellen, or call. Tell me, sin¬ 
cerely, what you think of him: is he changed for the better, or is 
there a prospect of improvement, as he grows a man?’ 

“‘He’s very delicate, sir,’ I replied; ‘and scarcely likely to reach 
manhood; but this I can say, he does not resemble his father; and 
if Miss Catherine had the misfortune to marry him, he would not be 
beyond her control: unless she were extremely and foolishly in¬ 
dulgent. However, master, you’ll have plenty of time to get ac¬ 
quainted with him, and see whether he would suit her: it wants 
four years and more to his being of age.’” 

Edgar sighed; and walking to the window, looked out towards 
Gimmerton Kirk. It was a misty afternoon, but the February sun 
shone dimly, and we could just distinguish the two fir-trees in the 
yard, and the sparely scattered grave-stones. 

“I’ve prayed often,” he half soliloquised, “for the approach of 
what is coming; and now I begin to shrink, and fear it. I thought 
the memory of the hour I came down that glen a bridegroom would 
be less sweet than the anticipation that I was soon, in a few months, 
or, possibly, weeks, to be carried up, and laid in its lonely hollow! 
Ellen, I’ve been very happy with my little Cathy: through winter 
nights and summer days she was a living hope at my side. But I’ve 
been as happy musing by myself among those stones, under that old 
church: lying, through the long June evenings, on the green mound 
of her mother’s grave, and wishing — yearning for the time when I 
might lie beneath it. What can I do for Cathy? How must I 
quit her? I’d not care one moment for Linton being Heathcliff’s 

2 12 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


son; nor for his taking her from me, if he could console her for my 
loss. I’d not care that Heathcliff gained his ends, and triumphed 
in robbing me of my last blessing ! But should Linton be unworthy 
only a feeble tool to his father — I cannot abandon her to him! 
And, hard though it be to crush her buoyant spirit, I must persevere 
in making her sad while I live, and leaving her solitary when I die. 
Darling! I’d rather resign her to God, and lay her in the earth 
before me.” 

“Resign her to God as it is, sir,” I answered, “and if we should 
lose you — which may He forbid — under His providence, I’ll 
stand her friend and counsellor to the last. Miss Catherine is a 
good girl: I don’t fear that she will go wilfully wrong; and people 
who do their duty are always finally rewarded.” 

Spring advanced; yet my master gathered no real strength, 
though he resumed his walks in the grounds with his daughter. To 
her inexperienced notions, this itself was a sign of convalescence; 
and then his cheek was often flushed, and his eyes were bright: she 
felt sure of his recovering. On her seventeenth birthday, he did 
not visit the churchyard: it was raining, and I observed — 

“You’ll surely not go out to-night, sir?” 

He answered — 

“No, I’ll defer it this year a little longer.” 

He wrote again to Linton, expressing his great desire to see him; 
and, had the invalid been presentable, I’ve no doubt his father 
would have permitted him to come. As it was, being instructed, he 
returned an answer, intimating that Mr Heathcliff objected to his 
calling at the Grange; but his uncle’s kind remembrance delighted 
him, and he hoped to meet him, sometimes, in his rambles, and 
personally to petition that his cousin and he might not remain long 
so utterly divided. 

That part of his letter was simple, and probably his own. Heath¬ 
cliff knew he could plead eloquently for Catherine’s company, then. 

“I do not ask,” he said, “that she may visit here; but, am I never 
to see her, because my father forbids me to go to her home, and you 
forbid her to come to mine? Do, now and then, ride with her 
towards the Heights; and let us exchange a few words, in your 
presence! We have done nothing to deserve this separation; and 
you are not angry with me: you have no reason to dislike me, you 
allow, yourself. Dear uncle ! send me a kind note to-morrow, and 
leave to join you anywhere you please, except at Thrushcross 

213 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Grange. I believe an interview would convince you that my 
father’s character is not mine: he affirms I am more your nephew 
than his son; and though I have faults which render me unworthy 
of Catherine, she has excused them, and for her sake, you should 
also. You inquire after my health — it is better; but while I re¬ 
main cut off from all hope, and doomed to solitude, or the society 
of those who never did and never will like me, how can I be cheerful 
and well?” 

Edgar, though he felt for the boy, could not consent to grant his 
request; because he could not accompany Catherine. He said, in 
summer, perhaps, they might meet: meantime, he wished him to 
continue writing at intervals, and engaged to give him what advice 
and comfort he was able by letter; being well aware of his hard 
position in his family. Linton complied; and had he been unre¬ 
strained, would probably have spoiled all by filling his epistles with 
complaints and lamentations: but his father kept a sharp watch 
over him; and, of course, insisted on every line that my master 
sent being shown; so, instead of penning his peculiar personal suffer¬ 
ings and distresses, the themes constantly uppermost in his thoughts, 
he harped on the cruel obligation of being held asunder from his 
friend and love; and gently intimated that Mr Linton must allow 
an interview soon, or he should fear he was purposely deceiving him 
with empty promises. 

Cathy was a powerful ally at home; and, between them, they at 
length persuaded my master to acquiesce in their having a ride or a 
walk together about once a week, under my guardianship, and on 
the moors nearest the Grange: for June found him still declining. 
Though he had set aside .yearly a portion of his income for my 
young lady’s fortune, he had a natural desire that she might retain 
— or at least return in a short time to — the house of her ancestors; 
and he considered her only prospect of doing that was by a union 
with his heir; he had no idea that the latter was failing almost as fast 
as himself; nor had anyone, I believe: no doctor visited the Heights, 
and no one saw Master Heathcliff to make report of his condition 
among us. I, for my part, began to fancy my forebodings were 
false, and that he must be actually rallying, when he mentioned 
riding and walking on the moors, and seemed so earnest in pursuing 
his object. I could not picture a father treating a dying child as 
tyrannically and wickedly as I afterwards learned Heathcliff had 
treated him, to compel this apparent eagerness: his efforts redoub- 

214 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


ling the more imminently his avaricious and unfeeling plans were 
threatened with defeat by death. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

S UMMER was already past its prime, when Edgar reluctantly 
yielded his assent to their entreaties, and Catherine and I set 
out on our first ride to join her cousin. It was a close, sultry day: 
devoid of sunshine, but with a sky too dappled and hazy to threaten 
rain; and our place of meeting had been fixed at the guide-stone, 
by the cross-roads. On arriving there, however, a little herd-boy, 
despatched as a messenger, told us that — 

“Maister Linton wer just o’ this side th’ Heights: and he’d be 
mitch obleeged to us to gang on a bit further.” 

“Then Master Linton has forgot the first injunction of his uncle,” 
I observed: “he bid us keep on the Grange land, and here we are 
off at once.” 

“Well, we’ll turn our horses’ heads round, when we reach him,” 
answered my companion; “our excursion shall lie towards home.” 

But when we reached him, and that was scarcely a quarter of a 
mile from his own door,we found he had no horse; and we were 
forced to dismount, and leave ours to graze. He lay on the heath, 
awaiting our approach, and did not rise till we came within a few 
yards. Then he walked so feebly, and looked so pale, that I imme¬ 
diately exclaimed — 

“Why, Master Heathcliff, you are not fit for enjoying a ramble, 
this morning. How ill you do look 1” 

Catherine surveyed him with grief and astonishment: she changed 
the ejaculation of joy on her lips, to one of alarm; and the congratu¬ 
lation on their long-postponed meeting, to an anxious inquiry, 
whether he were worse than usual ? 

“No — better — better!” he panted, trembling, and retaining 
her hand as if he needed its support, while his large blue eyes wan¬ 
dered timidly over her; the hollowness round them transforming to 
haggard wildness the languid expression they once possessed. 

“But you have been worse,” persisted his cousin: “worse than 

when I saw you last; you are thinner, and”- 

“I’m tired,” he interrupted hurriedly. “It is too hot for walking, 

215 




WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


let us rest here. And, in the morning, I often feel sick — papa says 
I grow so fast.” 

Badly satisfied, Cathy sat down, and he reclined beside her. 

“This is something like your paradise,” said she, making an effort 
at cheerfulness. “You recollect the two days we agreed to spend 
in the place and way each thought pleasantest? This is nearly 
yours, only there are clouds: but then they are so soft and mellow: 
it is nicer than sunshine. Next week, if you can, we’ll ride down 
to the Grange Park, and try mine.” 

Linton did not appear to remember what she talked of; and he 
had evidently great difficulty in sustaining any kind of conversa¬ 
tion. His lack of interest in the subjects she started, and his equal 
incapacity to contribute to her entertainment, were so obvious that 
she could not conceal her disappointment. An indefinite altera¬ 
tion had come over his whole person and manner. The pettish¬ 
ness that might be caressed into fondness, had yielded to a listless 
apathy; there was less of the peevish temper of a child which frets 
and teases on purpose to be soothed, and more of the self-absorbed 
moroseness of a confirmed invalid, repelling consolation, and ready 
to regard the good-humoured mirth of others as an insult. Cath¬ 
erine perceived, as well as I did, that he held it rather a punishment, 
than a gratification, to endure our company; and she made no scru¬ 
ple of proposing, presently, to depart. That proposal, unexpect¬ 
edly, roused Linton from his lethargy, and threw him into a strange 
state of agitation. He glanced fearfully towards the Heights, 
begging she would remain another half-hour at least. 

“But I think,” said Cathy, “you’d be more comfortable at home 
than sitting here; and I cannot amuse you to-day, I see, by my tales, 
and songs, and chatter: you have grown wiser than I, in these six 
months; you have little taste for my diversions now: or else, if I 
could amuse you, I’d willingly stay.” 

“Stay to rest yourself,” he replied. “And Catherine, don’t think, 
or say that I’m very unwell: it is the heavy weather and heat that 
make me dull; and I walked about, before you came, a great deal 
for me. Tell uncle I’m in tolerable health, will you?” 

“I’ll tell him that you say so, Linton. I couldn’t affirm that you 
are,” observed my young lady, wondering at his pertinacious asser¬ 
tion of what was evidently an untruth. 

“And be here again next Thursday,” continued he, shunning her 
puzzled gaze. “And give him my thanks for permitting you to 

2 16 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


come — my best thanks, Catherine. And — and, if you did meet 
my father, and he asked you about me, don’t lead him to suppose 
that I’ve been extremely silent and stupid: don’t look sad and 
downcast, as you are doing — he’ll be angry.” 

“I care nothing for his anger,” exclaimed Cathy, imagining she 
would be its object. 

“But I do,” said her cousin, shuddering. “Don't provoke him 
against me, Catherine, for he is very hard.” 

“Is he severe to you, Master Heathcliff ?” I inquired. “Has he 
grown weary of indulgence, and passed from passive to active 
hatred ?” 

Linton looked at me, but did not answer; and, after keeping her 
seat by his side another ten minutes, during which his head fell 
drowsily on his breast, and he uttered nothing except suppressed 
moans of exhaustion or pain, Cathy began to seek solace in looking 
for bilberries, and sharing the produce of her researches with me: 
she did not offer them to him, for she saw further notice would only 
weary and annoy. 

“Is it half-an-hour now, Ellen?” she whispered in my ear, at 
last. “I can’t tell why we should stay. He’s asleep, and papa will 
be wanting us back.” 

“Well, we must not leave him asleep,” I answered; “wait till he 
wakes, and be patient. You were mighty eager to set off, but your 
longing to see poor Linton has soon evaporated!” 

“Why did he wish to see me?” returned Catherine. “In his 
crossest humours, formerly, I liked him better than I do in his pres¬ 
ent curious mood. It’s just as if it were a task he was compelled 
to perform — this interview — for fear his father should scold him. 
But I’m hardly going to come to give Mr Heathcliff pleasure, 
whatever reason he may have for ordering Linton to undergo this 
penance. And, though I’m glad he’s better in health, I’m sorry he’s 
so much less pleasant, and so much less affectionate to me.” 

“You think he is better in health then?” I said. 

“Yes,” she answered; “because he always made such a great 
deal of his sufferings, you know. He is not tolerably well, as he 
told me to tell papa; but he’s better, very likely.” 

“There you differ with me, Miss Cathy,” I remarked; “I should 
conjecture him to be far worse.” 

Linton here started from his slumber in bewildered terror, and 
asked if anyone had called his name. 

217 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“No,” said Catherine; “unless in dreams. I cannot conceive 
how you manage to doze out of doors, in the morning.” 

“I thought I heard my father,” he gasped, glancing up to the 
frowning nab above us. “You are sure nobody spoke?” 

“Quite sure,” replied his cousin. “Only Ellen and I were dis¬ 
puting concerning your health. Are you truly stronger, Linton, 
than when we separated in winter? If you be I’m certain one thing 
is not stronger — your regard for me: speak, — are you?” 

The tears gushed from Linton’s eyes as he answered, “Yes, yes, 
I am!” And, still under the spell of the imaginary voice, his gaze 
wandered up and down to detect its owner. Cathy rose. “For 
to-day we must part,” she said. “And I won’t conceal that I have 
been sadly disappointed with our meeting; though I’ll mention it 
to nobody but you: not that I stand in awe of Mr Heathcliff.” 

“Hush,” murmured Linton: “for God’s sake, hush ! He’s com¬ 
ing.” And he clung to Catherine’s arm, striving to detain her; but 
at that announcement she hastily disengaged herself, and whistled 
to Minny, who obeyed her like a dog. 

. “I’ll be here next Thursday,” she cried, springing to the saddle. 
“Good-bye. Quick, Ellen!” 

And so we left him, scarcely conscious of our departure, so ab¬ 
sorbed was he in anticipating his father’s approach. 

Before we reached home, Catherine’s displeasure softened into a 
perplexed sensation of pity and regret, largely blended with vague, 
uneasy doubts about Linton’s actual circumstances, physical and 
social; in which I partook, though I counselled her not to say much; 
for a second journey would make us better judges. My master 
requested an account of our ongoings. His nephew’s offering of 
thanks was duly delivered, Miss Cathy gently touching on the rest: 
I also threw little light on his inquiries, for I hardly knew what to 
hide, and what to reveal. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

S EVEN days glided away, every one marking its course by the 
henceforth rapid alteration of Edgar Linton’s state. The 
havoc that months had previously wrought was now emulated by 
the inroads of hours. Catherine, we would fain have deluded yet: 

2l8 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


but her own quick spirit refused to delude her: it divined in secret, 
and brooded on the dreadful probability, gradually ripening into 
certainty. She had not the heart to mention her ride, when Thurs¬ 
day came round; I mentioned it for her, and obtained permission 
to order her out of doors: for the library, where her father stopped 
a short time daily — the brief period he could bear to sit up — and 
his chamber, had become her whole world. She grudged each mo¬ 
ment that did not find her bending over his pillow, or seated by his 
side. Her countenance grew wan with watching and sorrow, and 
my master gladly dismissed her to what he flattered himself would 
be a happy change of scene and society; drawing comfort from the 
hope that she would not now be left entirely alone after his 
death. 

He had a fixed idea, I guessed by several observations he let fall, 
that, as his nephew resembled him in person, he would resemble him 
in mind; for Linton’s letters bore few or no indications of his de¬ 
fective character. And I, through pardonable weakness, refrained 
from correcting the error; asking myself what good there would be 
in disturbing his last moments with information that he had neither 
power nor opportunity to turn to account. 

We deferred our excursion till the afternoon; a golden afternoon 
of August: every breath from the hills so full of life, that it seemed 
whoever respired it, though dying, might revive. Catherine’s face 
was just like the landscape — shadows and sunshine flitting over it 
in rapid succession; but the shadows rested longer, and the sun¬ 
shine was more transient; and her poor little heart reproached it¬ 
self for even that passing forgetfulness of its cares. 

We discerned Linton watching at the same spot he had 
selected before. My young mistress alighted, and told me that, 
as she was resolved to stay a very little while, I had better hold 
the pony and remain on horseback; but I dissented: I wouldn’t 
risk losing sight of the charge committed to me a minute; so we 
climbed the slope of heath together. Master Heathcliff received 
us with greater animation on this occasion: not the animation of 
high spirits though, nor yet of joy; it looked more like fear. 

“It is late!” he said, speaking short and with difficulty. “Is 
not your father very ill ? I thought you wouldn’t come.” 

“Why won’t you be candid?” cried Catherine, swallowing her 
greeting. “Why cannot you say at once you don’t want me? It is 
strange, Linton, that for the second time you have brought me here 

219 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


on purpose, apparently, to distress us both, and for no reason be¬ 
sides !” 

Linton shivered, and glanced at her, half supplicating, half 
ashamed; but his cousin’s patience was not sufficient to endure this 
enigmatical behaviour. 

“My father is very ill,” she said; “and why am I called from his 
bedside? Why didn’t you send to absolve me from my promise, 
when you wished I wouldn’t keep it ? Come ! I desire an explana¬ 
tion : playing and trifling are completely banished out of my mind; 
and I can’t dance attendance on your affectations now ! ” 

“My affectations!” he murmured; “what are they? For 
Heaven’s sake, Catherine, don’t look so angry! Despise me as 
much as you please; I am a worthless, cowardly wretch: I can’t 
be scorned enough; but I’m too mean for your anger. Hate my 
father, and spare me for contempt.” 

“Nonsense!” cried Catherine, in a passion. “Foolish, silly 
boy! And there! he trembles, as if I were really going to touch 
him! You needn’t bespeak contempt, Linton: anybody will have 
it spontaneously at your service. Get off! I shall return home: 
it is folly dragging you from the hearthstone, and pretending — 
what do we pretend ? Let go my frock! If I pitied you for cry¬ 
ing and looking so very frightened, you should spurn such pity. 
Ellen, tell him how disgraceful this conduct is. Rise, and don’t 
degrade yourself into an abject reptile — don't!” 

With streaming face and an expression of agony, Linton had 
thrown his nerveless frame along the ground: he seemed convulsed 
with exquisite terror. 

“Oh!” he sobbed, “I cannot bear it! Catherine, Catherine, 
I’m a traitor, too, and I dare not tell you! But leave me, and I 
shall be killed ! Dear Catherine, my life is in your hands: and you 
have said you loved me, and if you did, it wouldn’t harm you. 
You’ll not go, then ? kind, sweet, good Catherine! And perhaps 
you will consent — and he’ll let me die with you ! ” 

My young lady, on witnessing his intense anguish, stooped to 
raise him. The old feeling of indulgent tenderness overcame her 
vexation, and she grew thoroughly moved and alarmed. 

“Consent to what?” she asked. “To stay? Tell me the mean¬ 
ing of this strange talk, and I will. You contradict your own 
words, and distract me! Be calm and frank, and confess at once 
all that weighs on your heart. You wouldn’t injure me, Linton, 

220 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


would you? You wouldn’t let any enemy hurt me, if you could 
prevent it? I’ll believe you are a coward for yourself, but not a 
cowardly betrayer of your best friend.” 

“But my father threatened me,” gasped the boy, clasping his 
attenuated fingers, “and I dread him — I dread him ! I dare not 
tell!” 

“Oh, well!” said Catherine, with scornful compassion, “keep 
your secret: I’m no coward. Save yourself: I’m not afraid ! ” 

Her magnanimity provoked his tears: he wept wildly, kissing her 
supporting hands, and yet could not summon courage to speak out. 
I was cogitating what the mystery might be, and determined Cath¬ 
erine should never suffer, to benefit him or anyone else, by my good 
will; when, hearing a rustle among the ling, I looked up and saw 
Mr Heathcliff almost close upon us, descending the Heights. He 
didn’t cast a glance towards my companions, though they were 
sufficiently near for Linton’s sobs to be audible; but hailing me in 
the almost hearty tone he assumed to none besides, and the sincer¬ 
ity of which I couldn’t avoid doubting, he said — 

“It is something to see you so near to my house, Nelly. How 
are you at the Grange ? Let us hear. The rumour goes,” he added 
in a lower tone, “that Edgar Linton is on his deathbed: perhaps 
they exaggerate his illness ! ” 

“No; my master is dying,” I replied: “it is true enough. A sad 
thing it will be for us all, but a blessing for him! ” 

“How long will he last, do you think?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” I said. 

“Because,” he continued, looking at the two young people, who 
were fixed under his eye — Linton appeared as if he could not ven¬ 
ture to stir or raise his head, and Catherine could not move, on his 
account — “because that lad yonder seems determined to beat me; 
and I’d thank his uncle to be quick, and go before him. Halloo! 
has the whelp been playing that game long ? I did give him some 
lessons about snivelling. Is he pretty lively with Miss Linton gen¬ 
erally ?” 

“Lively? no — he has shown the greatest distress,” I answered. 
“To see him, I should say, that instead of rambling with his sweet¬ 
heart on the hills, he ought to be in bed, under the hands of a doctor.” 

“He shall be in a day or two,” muttered Heathcliff. “But first 
— get up, Linton ! Get up !” he shouted. “Don’t grovel on the 
ground there: up, this moment! ” 

221 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Linton had sunk prostrate again in another paroxysm of helpless 
fear, caused by his father’s glance towards him, I suppose: there 
was nothing else to produce such humiliation. He made several 
efforts to obey, but his little strength was annihilated for the time, 
and he fell back again with a moan. Mr Heathcliff advanced, and 
lifted him to lean against a ridge of turf. 

“Now,” said he, with curbed ferocity, “I’m getting angry; and 
if you don’t command that paltry spirit of yours — Damn you ! get 
up directly! ” 

“I will, father,” he panted. “Only, let me alone, or I shall faint. 
I’ve done as you wished, I’m sure. Catherine will tell you that I — 
that I — have been cheerful. Ah ! keep by me, Catherine: give 
me your hand.” 

“Take mine,” said his father; “stand on your feet. There now 
— she’ll lend you her arm: that’s right, look at her. You would 
imagine I was the devil himself, Miss Linton, to excite such horror. 
Be so kind as to walk home with him, will you? He shudders if 
I touch him.” 

“Linton, dear!” whispered Catherine, “I can’t go to Wuthering 
Heights: papa has forbidden me. He’ll not harm you: why are 
you so afraid?” 

“I can never re-enter that house,” he answered. “I’m not to 
re-enter it without you ! ” 

“Stop !” cried his father. “We’ll respect Catherine’s filial scru¬ 
ples. Nelly, take him in, and I’ll follow your advice concerning the 
doctor, without delay.” 

“You’ll do well,” replied I. “But I must remain with my mis¬ 
tress : to mind your son is not my business.” 

“You are very stiff,” said Heathcliff, “I know that: but you’ll 
force me to pinch the baby and make it scream before it moves your 
charity. Come, then, my hero. Are you 1 willing to return, escorted 
by me?” 

He approached once more, and made as if he would seize the 
fragile being; but, shrinking back, Linton clung to his cousin, and 
implored her to accompany him, with a frantic importunity that 
admitted no denial. However I disapproved, I couldn’t hinder 
her: indeed, how could she have refused him herself? What was 
filling him with dread we had no means of discerning: but there 
he was, powerless under its grip, and any addition seemed capable 
of shocking him into idiotcy. We reached the threshold: Cather- 


222 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


ine walked in, and I stood waiting till she had conducted the invalid 
to a chair, expecting her out immediately; when Mr Heathcliff, 
pushing me forward, exclaimed — 

“My house is not stricken with the plague, Nelly; and I have a 
mind to be hospitable to-day: sit down, and allow me to shut the 
door.” 

He shut and locked it also. I started. 

“You shall have tea before you go home,” he added. “I am by 
myself. Hareton is gone with some cattle to the Lees, and Zillah 
and Joseph are off on a journey of pleasure; and, though I’m used 
to being alone, I’d rather have some interesting company, if I can 
get it. Miss Linton, take your seat by him. I give you what I 
have: the present is hardly worth accepting; but I have nothing 
else to offer. It is Linton, I mean. How she does stare ! It’s odd 
what a savage feeling I have to anything that seems afraid of me! 
Had I been born where laws are less strict and tastes less dainty, I 
should treat myself to a slow vivisection of those two, as an even¬ 
ing’s amusement.” 

He drew in his breath, struck the table, and swore to himself, 
“By hell! I hate them.” 

“I’m not afraid of you!” exclaimed Catherine, who could not 
hear the latter part of his speech. She stepped close up; her black 
eyes flashing with passion and resolution. “Give me that key: I 
will have it!” she said. “I wouldn’t eat or drink here, if I were 
starving.” 

Heathcliff had the key in his hand that remained on the table. 
He looked up, seized with a sort of surprise at her boldness; or, 
possibly, reminded by her voice and glance, of the person from whom 
she inherited it. She snatched at the instrument, and half-suc¬ 
ceeded in getting it out of his loosened fingers: but her action re¬ 
called him to the present; he recovered it speedily. 

“Now, Catherine Linton,” he said, “stand off, or I shall knock 
you down; and that will make Mrs Dean mad.” 

Regardless of this warning, she captured his closed hand and its 
contents again. “We will go!” she repeated, exerting her utmost 
efforts to cause the iron muscles to relax; and finding that her nails 
made no impression, she applied her teeth pretty sharply. Heath¬ 
cliff glanced at me a glance that kept me from interfering a moment. 
Catherine was too intent on his fingers to notice his face. He 
opened them suddenly, and resigned the object of dispute; but, ere 

223 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


she had well secured it, he seized her with the liberated hand, and, 
pulling her on his knee, administered with the other a shower of 
terrific slaps on the side of the head, each sufficient to have fulfilled 
his threat, had she been able to fall. 

At this diabolical violence I rushed on him furiously. “You 
villain!” I began to cry, “you villain!” A touch on the chest 
silenced me: I am stout, and soon put out of breath; and, what 
with that and the rage, I staggered dizzily back, and felt ready to 
suffocate, or to burst a blood-vessel. The scene was over in two 
minutes; Catherine, released, put her two hands to her temples, 
and looked just as if she were not sure whether her ears were off or 
on. She trembled like a reed, poor thing, and leant against the 
table perfectly bewildered. 

“I know how to chastise children, you see,” said the scoundrel 
grimly, as he stooped to repossess himself of the key, which had 
dropped to the floor. “Go to Linton now, as I told you; and cry 
at your ease! I shall be your father, to-morrow — all the father 
you’ll have in a few days — and you shall have plenty of that. 
You can bear plenty; you’re no weakling: you shall have a daily 
taste, if I catch such a devil of a temper in your eyes again ! ” 

Cathy ran to me instead of Linton, and knelt down and put her 
burning cheek on my lap, weeping aloud. Her cousin had shrunk 
into a corner of the settle, as quiet as a mouse, congratulating him¬ 
self, I daresay, that the correction had lighted on another than him. 
Mr Heathcliff, perceiving us all confounded, rose, and expeditiously 
made the tea himself. The cups and saucers were laid ready. 
He poured it out, and handed me a cup. 

“Wash away your spleen,” he said. “And help your own 
naughty pet and mine. It is not poisoned, though I prepared it. 
I’m going out to seek your horses.” 

Our first thought, on his departure, was to force an exit some¬ 
where. We tried the kitchen door, but that was fastened outside: 
we looked at the windows — they were too narrow for even Cathy’s 
little figure. 

“Master Linton,” I cried, seeing we were regularly imprisoned: 
“you know what your diabolical father is after, and you shall tell 
us, or I’ll box your ears, as he has done your cousin’s.” 

“Yes, Linton, you must tell,” said Catherine. “It was for 
your sake I came; and it will be wickedly ungrateful if you 
refuse.” 


224 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Give me some tea, I’m thirsty, and then I’ll tell you,” he 
answered. “Mrs Dean, go away. I don’t like you standing over 
me. Now, Catherine, you are letting your tears fall into my cup. 
I won’t drink that. Give me another.” 

Catherine pushed another to him, and wiped her face. I felt 
disgusted at the little wretch’s composure, since he was no longer 
in terror for himself. The anguish he had exhibited on the moor 
subsided as soon as ever he entered Wuthering Heights; so I guessed 
he had been menaced with an awful visitation of wrath if he failed 
in decoying us there; and, that accomplished, he had no further 
immediate fears. 

“Papa wants us to be married,” he continued, after sipping some 
of the liquid. “And he knows your papa wouldn’t let us marry 
now; and he’s afraid of my dying, if we wait; so we are to be mar¬ 
ried in the morning, and you are to stay here all night; and if you 
do as he wishes, you shall return home next day, and take me with 
you.” 

“Take you with her, pitiful changeling?” I exclaimed. “ You 
marry? Why, the man is mad; or he thinks us fools, every one. 
And do you imagine that beautiful young lady, that healthy, hearty 
girl, will tie herself to a little perishing monkey like you! Are you 
cherishing the notion that anybody, let alone Miss Catherine Linton, 
would have you for a husband? You want whipping for bringing 
us in here at all, with your dastardly puling tricks; and — don’t 
look so silly, now! I’ve a very good mind to shake you severely, 
for your contemptible treachery, and your imbecile conceit.” 

I did give him a slight shaking; but it brought on the cough, and 
he took to his ordinary resource of moaning and weeping, and Cath¬ 
erine rebuked me. 

“Stay all night? No,” she said, looking slowly round. “Ellen, 
I’ll burn that door down, but I’ll get out.” 

And she would have commenced the execution of her threat di¬ 
rectly, but Linton was up in alarm for his dear self again. He 
clasped her in his two feeble arms, sobbing — 

“Won’t you have me, and save me? not let me come to the 
Grange ? Oh ! darling Catherine ! you mustn’t go and leave, after 
all. You must obey my father — you must!” 

“I must obey my own,” she replied, “and relieve him from this 
sruel suspense. The whole night! What would he think ? he’ll 
be distressed already. I’ll either break or burn a way out of the 

225 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


house. Be quiet! You’re in no danger; but if you hinder me — 
Linton, I love papa better than you!” 

The mortal terror he felt of Mr Heathcliff’s anger restored to the 
boy his coward’s eloquence. Catherine was near distraught: still, 
she persisted that she must go home, and tried entreaty in her turn, 
persuading him to subdue his selfish agony. While they were thus 
occupied, our gaoler re-entered. 

“Your beasts have trotted off,” he said, “and — now, Linton! 
snivelling again ? What has she been doing to you ? Come, come 
— have done, and get to bed. In a month or two, my lad, you’ll 
be able to pay her back her present tyrannies with a vigorous hand. 
You’re pining for pure love, are you not ? nothing else in the world: 
and she shall have you! There, to bed ! Zillah won’t be here to¬ 
night; you must undress yourself. Hush! hold your noise ! Once 
in your own room, I’ll not come near you: you needn’t fear. By 
chance you’ve managed tolerably. I’ll look to the rest.” 

He spoke these words, holding the door open for his son to pass; 
and the latter achieved his exit exactly as a spaniel might, which 
suspected the person who attended on it of designing a spiteful 
squeeze. The lock was re-secured. Heathcliff approached the 
fire, where my mistress and I stood silent. Catherine looked up, 
and instinctively raised her hand to her cheek: his neighbourhood 
revived a painful sensation. Anybody else would have been inca¬ 
pable of regarding the childish act with sternness, but he scowled 
on her, and muttered — 

“ Oh! you are not afraid of me ? Your courage is well disguised: 
you seem damnably afraid!” 

“I am afraid now,” she replied, “because, if I stay, papa will 
be miserable; and how can I endure making him miserable; — 
when he — when he — Mr Heathcliff, let me go home ! I prom¬ 
ise to marry Linton: papa would like me to: and I love him. 
Why should you wish to force me to do what I’ll willingly do of 
myself ? ” 

“Let him dare to force you!” I cried. “There’s law in the 
land, thank God there is; though we be in an out-of-the-way place. 
I’d inform if he were my own son: and it’s felony without benefit 
of clergy! ” 

“Silence!” said the ruffian. “To the devil with your clamour! 
I don’t want you to speak. Miss Linton, I shall enjoy myself 
remarkably in thinking your father will be miserable: I shall not 

226 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


sleep for satisfaction. You could have hit on no surer way of 
having your residence under my roof for the next twenty-four hours, 
than informing me that such an event would follow. As to your 
promise to marry Linton, I’ll take care you shall keep it; for you 
shall not quit this place till it is fulfilled.” 

“Send Ellen, then, to let papa know I’m safe!” exclaimed 
Catherine, weeping bitterly. “Or marry me now. Poor papa! 
Ellen, he’ll think we’re lost. What shall we do?” 

“Not he! He’ll think you are tired of waiting on him, and 
run off for a little amusement,” answered Heathcliff. “You can¬ 
not deny that you entered my house of your own accord, in con¬ 
tempt of his injunctions to the contrary. And it is quite natural 
that you should desire amusement at your age; and that you 
would weary of nursing a sick man, and that man only your father. 
Catherine, his happiest days were over when your days began. 
He cursed you, I daresay, for coming into the world (I did, at 
least); and it would just do if he cursed you as he went out of it. 
I’d join him. I don’t love you! How should I ? Weep away. 
As far as I can see, it will be your chief diversion hereafter; unless 
Linton make amends for other losses: and your provident parent 
appears to fancy he may. His letters of advice and consolation 
entertained me vastly. In his last he recommended my jewel to 
be careful of his; and kind to her when he got her. Careful and 
kind — that’s paternal. But Linton requires his whole stock of 
care and kindness for himself. Linton can play the little tyrant 
well. He’ll undertake to torture any number of cats, if their 
teeth be drawn and their claws pared. You’ll be able to tell his 
uncle fine tales of his kindness , when you get home again, I assure 
you.” 

“You’re right there!” I said; “explain your son’s character. 
Show his resemblance to yourself; and then, I hope, Miss Cathy 
will think twice before she takes the cockatrice!” 

“I don’t much mind speaking of his amiable qualities now,” 
he answered; “because she must either accept him or remain a 
prisoner, and you along with her, till your master dies. I can 
detain you both, quite concealed, here. If you doubt, encourage 
her to retract her word, and you’ll have an opportunity of judg¬ 
ing !” 

“I’ll not retract my word,” said Catherine. “I’ll marry him 
within this hour, if I may go to Thrushcross Grange afterwards. 

227 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Mr Heathcliff, you’re a cruel man, but you’re not a fiend; and 
you won’t, from mere malice, destroy irrevocably all my happiness. 
If papa thought I had left him on purpose, and if he died before 
I returned, could I bear to live? I’ve given over crying: but 
I’m going to kneel here, at your knee; and I’ll not get up, and I’ll 
not take my eyes from your face till you look back at me! No, 
don’t turn away! do look! You’ll see nothing to provoke you. 
I don’t hate you. I’m not angry that you struck me. Have you 
never loved anybody in all your life, uncle ? never ? Ah! you 
must look once. I’m so wretched, you can’t help being sorry and 
pitying me.” 

“Keep your eft’s fingers off; and move, or I’ll kick you!” cried 
Heathcliff, brutally repulsing her. “I’d rather be hugged by a 
snake. How the devil can you dream of fawning on me? I 
detest you!” 

He shrugged his shoulders: shook himself, indeed, as if his 
flesh crept with aversion; and thrust back his chair; while I got 
up, and opened my mouth, to commence a downright torrent of 
abuse. But I was rendered dumb in the middle of the first sen¬ 
tence, by a threat that I should be shown into a room by myself 
the very next syllable I uttered. It was growing dark — we heard 
a sound of voices at the garden gate. Our host hurried out in¬ 
stantly: he had his wits about him; we had not. There was a 
talk of two or three minutes, and he returned alone. 

“I thought it had been your cousin Hareton,” I observed to 
Catherine. “I wish he would arrive! Who knows but he might 
take our part?” 

“It was three servants sent to seek you from the Grange,” said 
Heathcliff, overhearing me. “You should have opened a lattice 
and called out: but I could swear that chit is glad you didn’t. 
She’s glad to be obliged to stay, I’m certain.” 

At learning the chance we had missed, we both gave vent to our 
grief without control; and he allowed us to wail on till nine o’clock. 
Then he bid us go upstairs, through the kitchen, to Zillah’s cham¬ 
ber; and I whispered my companion to obey: perhaps we might 
contrive to get through the window there, or into a garret, and 
out by its skylight. The window, however, was narrow, like those 
below, and the garret trap was safe from our attempts; for we 
were fastened in as before. We neither of us lay down: Cather¬ 
ine took her station by the lattice, and watched anxiously for 

228 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


morning; a deep sigh being the only answer I could obtain to my 
frequent entreaties that she would try to rest. I seated myself in 
a chair, and rocked to and fro, passing harsh judgment on my 
many derelictions of duty; from which, it struck me then, all the 
misfortunes of my employers sprang. It was not the case, in 
reality, I am aware; but it was, in my imagination, that dismal 
night; and I thought Heathcliff himself less guilty than I. 

At seven o’clock he came, and inquired if Miss Linton had 
risen. She ran to the door immediately, and answered, “Yes.” 
“Here, then,” he said, opening it, and pulling her out. I rose to 
follow, but he turned the lock again. I demanded my release. 

“Be patient,” he replied; “I’ll send up your breakfast in a 
while.” 

I thumped on the panels, and rattled the latch angrily; and 
Catherine asked why I was still shut up? He answered, I must 
try to endure it another hour, and they went away. I endured it 
two or three hours; at length, I heard a footstep: not Heathcliff’s. 

“I’ve brought you something to eat,” said a voice; “oppen t’ 
door!” 

Complying eagerly, I beheld Hareton, laden with food enough to 
last me all day. 

“Tak it,” he added, thrusting the tray into my hand. 

“Stay one minute,” I began. 

“Nay,” cried he, and retired, regardless of any prayers I could 
pour forth to detain him. 

And there I remained enclosed the whole day, and the whole of 
the next night; and another, and another. Five nights and four 
days I remained, altogether, seeing nobody but Hareton, once 
every morning; and he was a model of a gaoler: surly, and dumb, 
and deaf to every attempt at moving his sense of justice or com¬ 
passion. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

O N the fifth morning, or rather afternoon, a different step 
approached — lighter and shorter; and, this time, the 
person entered the room. It was Zillah; donned in her scarlet 
shawl, with a black silk bonnet on her head, and a willow basket 
swung to her arm. 


229 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Eh, dear! Mrs Dean!” she exclaimed. “Well! there is a 
talk about you at Gimmerton. I never thought but you were sunk 
in the Blackhorse marsh, and missy with you, till master told me 
you’d been found, and he’d lodged you here! What! and you 
must have got on an island, sure ? And how long were you in the 
hole? Did master save you, Mrs Dean? But you’re not so thin 
— you’ve not been so poorly, have you?” 

“Your master is a true scoundrel!” I replied. “But he shall 
answer for it. He needn’t have raised that tale: it shall all be 
laid bare!” 

“What do you mean?” asked Zillah. “It’s not his tale: they 
tell that in the village — about your being lost in the marsh: and 
I calls to Earnshaw, when I come in — ‘Eh, they’s queer things, 
Mr Hareton, happened since I went off. It’s a sad pity of that 
likely young lass, and cant Nelly Dean.’ He stared. I thought 
he had not heard aught, so I told him the rumour. The master 
listened, and he just smiled to himself, and said, ‘If they have 
been in the marsh, they are out now, Zillah. Nelly Dean is lodged, 
at this minute, in your room. You can tell her to flit, when 
you go up; here is the key. The bog-water got into her head, 
and she would have run home quite flighty; but I fixed her till 
she came round to her senses. You can bid her go to the Grange 
at once, if she be able, and carry a message from me, that her young 
lady will follow in time to attend the squire’s funeral.’” 

“Mr Edgar is not dead?” I gasped. “Oh! Zillah, Zillah!” 

“No, no; sit you down, my good mistress,” she replied, “you’re 
right sickly yet. He’s not dead; Doctor Kenneth thinks he may 
last another day. I met him on the road and asked.” 

Instead of sitting down, I snatched my outdoor things, and 
hastened below, for the way was free. On entering the house, I 
looked about for someone to give information of Catherine. The 
place was filled with sunshine, and the door stood wide open; 
but nobody seemed at hand. As I hesitated whether to go off at 
once, or return and seek my mistress, a slight cough drew my 
attention to the hearth. Linton lay on the settle, sole tenant, 
sucking a stick of sugar-candy, and pursuing my movements with 
apathetic eyes. “Where is Miss Catherine?” I demanded sternly, 
supposing I could frighten him into giving intelligence, by catch¬ 
ing him thus, alone. He sucked on like an innocent. 

“Is she gone?” I said. 


230 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“No,” he replied; “she’s upstairs: she’s not to go; we won’t 
let her.” 

“You won’t let her, little idiot!” I exclaimed. “Direct me to 
her room immediately, or I’ll make you sing out sharply.” 

“Papa would make you sing out, if you attempted to get there,” 
he answered. “He says I’m not to be soft with Catherine: she’s 
my wife, and it’s shameful that she should wish to leave me. He 
says, she hates me and wants me to die, that she may have my 
money; but she shan’t have it: and she shan’t go home! She 
never shall! — she may cry, and be sick as much as she pleases! ” 

He resumed his former occupation, closing his lids, as if he 
meant to drop asleep. 

“Master Heathcliff,” I resumed, “have you forgotten all Cath¬ 
erine’s kindness to you last winter, when you affirmed you loved 
her, and when she brought you books and sung you songs, and 
came many a time through wind and snow to see you? She wept 
to miss one evening, because you would be disappointed; and 
you felt then that she was a hundred times too good to you: and 
now you believe the lies your father tells, though you know he 
detests you both. And you join him against her. That’s fine 
gratitude, is it not?” 

The corner of Linton’s mouth fell, and he took the sugar-candy 
from his lips. 

“Did she come to Wuthering Heights, because she hated you?” 
I continued. “Think for yourself! As to your money, she does 
not even know that you will have any. And you say she’s sick; 
and yet, you leave her alone, up there in a strange house! Y ou 
who have felt what it is to be so neglected! You could pity your 
own sufferings; and she pitied them too; but you won’t pity hers! 
I shed tears, Master Heathcliff, you see — an elderly woman, and 
a servant merely — and you, after pretending such affection, and 
having reason to worship her almost, store every tear you have 
for yourself, and lie there quite at ease. Ah! you’re a heartless, 
selfish boy!” 

“I can’t stay with her,” he answered crossly. “I’ll not stay 
by myself. She cries so I can’t bear it. And she won’t give over, 
though I say I’ll call my father. I did call him once, and he 
threatened to strangle her, if she was not quiet; but she began 
again the instant he left the room, moaning and grieving all night 
long, though I screamed for vexation that I couldn’t sleep.” 

231 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Is Mr Heathcliff out?” I inquired, perceiving that the wretched 
creature had no power to sympathise with his cousin’s mental 
tortures. 

“He’s in the court,” he replied, “talking to Dr Kenneth; who 
says uncle is dying, truly, at last. I’m glad, for I shall be master 
of the Grange after him. Catherine always spoke of it as her 
house. It isn’t hers! It’s mine: papa says everything she has 
is mine. All her nice books are mine; she offered to give me them, 
and her pretty birds, and her pony Minny, if I would get the key 
of our room, and let her out; but I told her she had nothing to give, 
they were all, all mine. And then she cried, and took a little pic¬ 
ture from her neck, and said I should have that; two pictures in 
a gold case, on one side her mother, and on the other, uncle, when 
they were young. That was yesterday — I said they were mine, 
too; and tried to get them from her. The spiteful thing wouldn’t 
let me: she pushed me off, and hurt me. I shrieked out — that 
frightens her — she heard papa coming, and she broke the hinges 
and divided the case, and gave me her mother’s portrait; the 
other she attempted to hide: but papa asked what was the matter, 
and I explained it. He took the one I had away, and ordered her 
to resign hers to me; she refused, and he — he struck her down, 
and wrenched it off the chain, and crushed it with his foot.” 

“And were you pleased to see her struck?” I asked: having 
my designs in encouraging his talk. 

“I winked,” he answered: “I wink to see my father strike a 
dog or a horse, he does it so hard. Yet I was glad at first — she 
deserved punishing for pushing me: but when papa was gone, 
she made me come to the window and showed me her cheek cut 
on the inside, against her teeth, and her mouth filling with blood; 
and then she gathered up the bits of the picture, and went and sat 
down with her face to the wall, and she has never spoken to me 
since: and I sometimes think she can’t speak for pain. I don’t 
like to think so; but she’s a naughty thing for crying continually; 
and she looks so pale and wild, I’m afraid of her.” 

“And you can get the key if you choose?” I said. 

“Yes, when I’m upstairs,” he answered; “but I can’t walk 
upstairs now.” 

“In what apartment is it?” I asked. 

“Oh,” he cried, “I shan’t tell you where it is! It is our secret. 
Nobody, neither Hareton nor Zillah, is to know. There! you’ve 

232 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


tired me — go away, go away!” And he turned his face on to 
his arm, and shut his eyes again. 

I considered it best to depart without seeing Mr Heathcliff, 
and bring a rescue for my young lady from the Grange. On reach- 
ing it, the astonishment of my fellow-servants to see me, and their 
joy also, was intense; and when they heard that their little mis¬ 
tress was safe, two or three were about to hurry up and shout the 
news at Mr Edgar’s door: but I bespoke the announcement of 
it, myself. How changed I found him, even in those few days! 
He lay an image of sadness and resignation waiting his death. 
Very young he looked; though his actual age was thirty-nine, 
one would have called him ten years younger, at least. He thought 
of Catherine; for he murmured her name. I touched his hand, 
and spoke. 

“Catherine is coming, dear master!” I whispered; “she is 
alive and well; and will be here, I hope, to-night.” 

I trembled at the first effects of this intelligence: he half rose 
up, looked eagerly round the apartment, and then sank back in a 
swoon. As soon as he recovered, I related our compulsory visit, 
and detention at the Heights. I said Heathcliff forced me to go 
in: which was not quite true. I uttered as little as possible against 
Linton; nor did I describe all his father’s brutal conduct — my 
intentions being to add no bitterness, if I could help it, to his al¬ 
ready overflowing cup. 

He divined that one of his enemy’s purposes was to secure the 
personal property, as well as the estate, to his son: or rather him¬ 
self; yet why he did not wait till his decease was a puzzle to my 
master, because ignorant how nearly he and his nephew would 
quit the world together. However, he felt that his will had better 
be altered: instead of leaving Catherine’s fortune at her own dis¬ 
posal, he determined to put it in the hands of trustees for her use 
during life, and for her children, if she had any, after her. By 
that means, it could not fall to Mr Heathcliff should Linton die. 

Having received his orders, I despatched a man to fetch the 
attorney, and four more, provided with serviceable weapons, to 
demand my young lady of her gaoler. Both parties were delayed 
very late. The single servant returned first. He said Mr Green, 
the lawyer, was out when he arrived at his house, and he had to 
wait two hours for his re-entrance; and then Mr Green told him 
he had a little business in the village that must be done; but he 

233 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


would be at Thrushcross Grange before morning. The four 
men came back unaccompanied also. They brought word that 
Catherine was ill: too ill to quit her room; and Heathcliff would 
not suffer them to see her. I scolded the stupid fellows well for 
listening to that tale, which I would not carry to my master; re¬ 
solving to take a whole bevy up to the Heights, at daylight, and 
storm it literally, unless the prisoner were quietly surrendered to 
us. Her father shall see her, I vowed, and vowed again, if that 
devil be killed on his own doorstones in trying to prevent it! 

Happily, I was spared the journey and the trouble. I had 
gone downstairs at three o’clock to fetch a jug of water; and was 
passing through the hall with it in my hand, when a sharp knock 
at the front door made me jump. “Oh! it is Green,” I said, 
recollecting myself —“only Green,” and I went on, intending to 
send somebody else to open it; but the knock was repeated: not 
loud, and still importunately. I put the jug on the banister and 
hastened to admit him myself. The harvest moon shone clear 
outside. It was not the attorney. My own sweet little mistress 
sprang on my neck, sobbing — 

“Ellen! Ellen! is papa alive?” 

“Yes,” I cried: “yes, my angel, he is. God be thanked, you 
are safe with us again!” 

She wanted to run, breathless as she was, upstairs to Mr Lin¬ 
ton’s room; but I compelled her to sit down on a chair, and made 
her drink, and washed her pale face, chafing it into a faint colour 
with my apron. Then I said I must go first, and tell of her arri¬ 
val; imploring her to say, she should be happy with young Heath- 
cliff. She stared, but soon comprehending why I counselled her 
to utter the falsehood, she assured me she would not complain. 

I couldn’t abide to be present at their meeting. I stood outside 
the chamber-door a quarter of an hour, and hardly ventured near 
the bed, then. All was composed, however: Catherine’s despair 
was as silent as her father’s joy. She supported him calmly, in 
appearance; and he fixed on her features his raised eyes, that 
seemed dilating with ecstasy. 

He died blissfully, Mr Lockwood: he died so. Kissing her 
cheek, he murmured — 

“I am going to her; and you, darling child, shall come to us!” 
and never stirred or spoke again; but continued that rapt, radiant 
gaze, till his pulse imperceptibly stopped and his soul departed. 

2 34 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


None could have noticed the exact minute of his death, it was so 
entirely without a struggle. 

Whether Catherine had spent her tears, or whether the grief 
were too weighty to let them flow, she sat there dry-eyed till the 
sun rose: she sat till noon, and would still have remained brood¬ 
ing over that deathbed, but I insisted on her coming away and 
taking some repose. It was well I succeeded in removing her; 
for at dinner-time appeared the lawyer, having called at Wuther- 
ing Heights to get his instructions how to behave. He had 
sold himself to Mr Heathcliff: that was the cause of his delay in 
obeying my master’s summons. Fortunately, no thought of 
worldly affairs crossed the latter’s mind, to disturb him, after his 
daughter’s arrival. 

* 

Mr Green took upon himself to order everything and everybody 
about the place. He gave all the servants, but me, notice to quit. 
He would have carried his delegated authority to the point of in¬ 
sisting that Edgar Linton should not be buried beside his wife, 
but in the chapel, with his family. There was the will, however, 
to hinder that, and my loud protestations against any infringe¬ 
ment of its directions. The funeral was hurried over; Catherine, 
Mrs Linton Heathcliff now, was suffered to stay at the Grange 
till her father’s corpse had quitted it. 

She told me that her anguish had at last spurred Linton to in¬ 
cur the risk of liberating her. She heard the men I sent disputing 
at the door, and she gathered the sense of Heathcliff’s answer. 
It drove her desperate. Linton, who had been conveyed up to 
the little parlour soon after I left, was terrified into fetching the 
key before his father re-ascended. He had the cunning to un¬ 
lock and re-lock the door, without shutting it; and when he should 
have gone to bed, he begged to sleep with Hareton, and his petition 
was granted for once. Catherine stole out before break of day. 
She dare not try the doors, lest the dogs should raise an alarm; 
she visited the empty chambers and examined their windows; 
and, luckily, lighting on her mother’s, she got easily out of its lat¬ 
tice, and on to the ground, by means of the fir-tree close by. Her 
accomplice suffered for his share in the escape, notwithstanding 
his timid contrivances. 


235 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

T HE evening after the funeral, my young lady and I were 
seated in the library; now musing mournfully — one of 
us despairingly — on our loss, now venturing conjectures as to 
the gloomy future. 

We had just agreed the best destiny which could await Cath¬ 
erine, would be a permission to continue resident at the Grange; 
at least, during Linton’s life: he being allowed to join her there, 
and I to remain as housekeeper. That seemed rather too favour¬ 
able an arrangement to be hoped for: and yet I did hope, and 
began to cheer up under the prospect of retaining my home and 
my employment, and, above all, my beloved young mistress; 
when a servant — one of the discarded ones, not yet departed — 
rushed hastily in, and said “that devil Heathcliff” was coming 
through the court: should he fasten the door in his face? 

If we had been mad enough to order that proceeding, we had not 
time. He made no ceremony of knocking or announcing his name: 
he was master, and availed himself of the master’s privilege to walk 
straight in, without saying a word. The sound of our informant’s 
voice directed him to the library: he entered, and motioning 
him out, shut the door. 

It was the same room into which he had been ushered, as a guest, 
eighteen years before: the same moon shone through the window; 
and the same autumn landscape lay outside. We had not yet 
lighted a candle, but all the apartment was visible, even to the 
portraits on the wall: the splendid head of Mrs Linton, and the 
graceful one of her husband. Heathcliff advanced to the hearth. 
Time had little altered his person either. There was the same 
man: his dark face rather sallower and more composed, his frame 
a stone or two heavier, perhaps, and no other difference. Cath¬ 
erine had risen, with an impulse to dash out, when she saw him. 

“Stop !” he said, arresting her by the arm. “No more runnings 
away! Where would you go ? I’m come to fetch you home; 
and I hope you’ll be a dutiful daughter, and not encourage my 
son to further disobedience. I was embarrassed how to punish 
him when I discovered his part in the business: he’s such a cob¬ 
web, a pinch would annihilate him; but you’ll see by his look that 
he has received his due! I brought him down one evening, the 

236 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


day before yesterday, and just set him in a chair, and never touched 
him afterwards. I sent Hareton out, and we had the room to our¬ 
selves. In two hours, I called Joseph to carry him up again; 
and since then my presence is as potent on his nerves as a ghost; 
and I fancy he sees me often, though I am not near. Hareton 
says he wakes and shrieks in the night by the hour together, and 
calls you to protect him from me; and, whether you like your 
precious mate or not, you must come: he’s your concern now; I 
yield all my interest in him to you.” 

“Why not let Catherine continue here?” I pleaded, “and send 
Master Linton to her. As you hate them both, you’d not miss 
them: they can only be a daily plague to your unnatural heart.” 

“I’m seeking a tenant for the Grange,” he answered; “and I 
want my children about me, to be sure. Besides, that lass owes 
me her services for her bread. I’m not going to nurture her in 
luxury and idleness after Linton has gone. Make haste and get 
ready, now; and don’t oblige me to compel you.” 

“I shall,” said Catherine. “Linton is all I have to love in the 
world, and though you have done what you could to make him 
hateful to me, and me to him, you cannot make us hate each other. 
And I defy you to hurt him when I am by, and I defy you to frighten 
me! ” 

“You are a boastful champion,” replied Heathcliff; “but I 
don’t like you well enough to hurt him: you shall get the full bene¬ 
fit of the torment, as long as it lasts. It is not I who will make 
him hateful to you — it is his own sweet spirit. He’s as bitter as 
gall at your desertion and its consequences: don’t expect thanks 
for this noble devotion. I heard him draw a pleasant picture to 
Zillah of what he would do if he were as strong as I: the inclina¬ 
tion is there, and his very weakness will sharpen his wits to find a 
substitute for strength.” 

“I know he has a bad nature,” said Catherine: “he’s your son. 
But I’m glad I’ve a better, to forgive it; and I know he loves me, 
and for that reason I love him. Mr Heathcliff, you have nobody 
to love you; and, however miserable you make us, we shall still 
have the revenge of thinking that your cruelty arises from your 
greater misery. You are miserable, are you not? Lonely, like 
the devil, and envious like him ? Nobody loves you nobody 
will cry for you when you die ! I wouldn’t be you ! ” 

Catherine spoke with a kind of dreary triumph: she seemed 

237 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


to have made up her mind to enter into the spirit of her future 
family, and draw pleasure from the griefs of her enemies. 

“You shall be sorry to be yourse'lf presently,” said her father- 
in-law, “if you stand there another minute. Begone, witch, and 
get your things ! ” 

She scornfully withdrew. In her absence, I began to beg for 
Zillah’s place at the Heights, offering to resign mine to her; but 
he would suffer it on no account. He bid me be silent; and then, 
for the first time, allowed himself a glance round the room and a 
look at the pictures. Having studied Mrs Linton’s, he said — 

“I shall have that home. Not because I need it, but”- 

He turned abruptly to the fire, and continued, with what, for lack 
of a better word, I must call a smile — “I’ll tell you what I did 
yesterday! I got the sexton, who was digging Linton’s grave, 
to remove the earth off her coffin-lid, and I opened it. I thought, 
once, I would have stayed there: when I saw her face again — it 
is hers yet! — he had hard work to stir me; but he said it would 
change if the air blew on it, and so I struck one side of the coffin 
loose, and covered it up: not Linton’s side, damn him! I wish 
he’d been soldered in lead. And I bribed the sexton to pull it 
away when I’m laid there, and slide mine out too; I’ll have it 
made so: and then, by the time Linton gets to us he’ll not know 
which is which ! ” 

“You were very wicked, Mr Heathcliff!” I exclaimed; “were 
you not ashamed to disturb the dead?” 

“I disturbed nobody, Nelly,” he replied; “and I gave some 
ease to myself. I shall be a great deal more comfortable now; 
and you’ll have a better chance of keeping me underground, when 
I get there. Disturbed her? No! she has disturbed me, night 
and day, through eighteen years — incessantly — remorselessly 
— till yesternight; and yesternight I was tranquil. I dreamt I 
was sleeping the last sleep by that sleeper, with my heart stopped 
and my cheek frozen against hers.” 

“And if she had been dissolved into earth, or worse, what would 
you have dreamt of then?” I said. 

“Of dissolving with her, and being more happy still!” he an¬ 
swered. “Do you suppose I dread any change of that sort? I 
expected such a transformation on raising the lid: but I’m better 
pleased that it should not commence till I share it. Besides, un¬ 
less I had received a distinct impression of her passionless features, 

238 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


that strange feeling would hardly have been removed. It began 
oddly. You know I was wild after she died; and eternally, from 
dawn to dawn, praying her to return to me her spirit! I have a 
strong faith in ghosts: I have a conviction that they can, and do, 
exist among us! The day she was buried there came a fall of 
snow. In the evening I went to the churchyard. It blew bleak 
as winter — all round was solitary. I didn’t fear that her fool 
of a husband would wander up the den so late; and no one else 
had business to bring them there. Being alone, and conscious 
two yards of loose earth was the sole barrier between us, I said to 
myself — ‘ I’ll have her in my arms again! If she be cold, I’ll 
think it is this north wind that chills me; and if she be motionless, 
it is sleep.’ I got a spade from the tool-house, and began to delve 
with all my might — it scraped the coffin; I fell to work with my 
hands; the wood commenced cracking about the screws; I was 
on the point of attaining my object, when it seemed that I heard 
a sigh from someone above, close at the edge of the grave, and 
bending down. ‘If I can only get this off,’ I muttered, ‘I wish 
they may shovel in the earth over us both! ’ and I wrenched at it 
more desperately still. There was another sigh, close at my ear. 
I appeared to feel the warm breath of it displacing the sleet-laden 
wind. I knew no living thing in flesh and blood was by; but, as 
certainly as you perceive the approach to some substantial body 
in the dark, though it cannot be discerned, so certainly I felt that 
Cathy was there: not under me, but on the earth. A sudden sense 
of relief flowed from my heart through every limb. I relinquished 
my labour of agony, and turned consoled at once: unspeakably 
consoled. Her presence was with me: it remained while I refilled 
the grave, and led me home. You may laugh, if you will; but I 
was sure I should see her there. I was sure she was with me, 
and I could not help talking to her. Having reached the Heights, 
I rushed eagerly to the door. It was fastened; and, I remember, 
that accursed Earnshaw and my wife opposed my entrance. I 
remember stopping to kick the breath out of him, and then hurry¬ 
ing upstairs, to my room and hers. I looked round impatiently 
— I felt her by me — I could almost see her, and yet I could not l 
I ought to have sweat blood then, from the anguish of my yearn¬ 
ing — from the fervour of my supplications to have but one glimpse ! 
I had not one. She showed herself, as she often was in life, a devil 
to me! And, since then, sometimes more and sometimes less, I’ve 

239 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


been the sport of that intolerable torture! Infernal! keeping my 
nerves at such a stretch, that, if they had not resembled catgut, 
they would long ago have relaxed to the feebleness of Linton’s. 
When I sat in the house with Hareton, it seemed that on going 
out, I should meet her; when I walked on the moors I should meet 
her coming in. When I went from home, I hastened to return: 
she must be somewhere at the Heights, I was certain! And when 
I slept in her chamber — I was beaten out of that. I couldn’t 
lie there; for the moment I closed my eyes, she was either outside 
the window, or sliding back the panels, or entering the room, or 
even resting her darling head on the same pillow as she did when 
a child; and I must open my lids to see. And so I opened and 
closed them a hundred times a night — to be always disappointed! 
It racked me! I’ve often groaned aloud, till that old rascal Joseph 
no doubt believed that my conscience was playing the fiend inside 
of me. Now, since I’ve seen her, I’m pacified — a little. It was a 
strange way of killing! not by inches, but by fractions of hair¬ 
breadths, to beguile me with the spectre of a hope, through eigh¬ 
teen years! ” 

Mr Heathcliff paused and wiped his forehead; his hair clung 
to it, wet with perspiration; his eyes were fixed on the red embers 
of the fire, the brows not contracted, but raised next the temples; 
diminishing the grim aspect of his countenance, but imparting a 
peculiar look of trouble, and a painful appearance of mental ten¬ 
sion towards one absorbing subject. He only half addressed me, 
and I maintained silence. I didn’t like to hear him talk! After 
a short period he resumed his meditation on the picture, took it 
down and leant it against the sofa to contemplate it at better ad¬ 
vantage; and while so occupied Catherine entered, announcing 
that she was ready, when her pony should be saddled. 

“Send that over to-morrow,” said Heathcliff to me; then turn¬ 
ing to her, he added — “You may do without your pony: it is a 
fine evening, and you’ll need no ponies at Wuthering Heights; for 
what journeys you take, your own feet will serve you. Come along.” 

“Good-bye, Ellen!” whispered my dear little mistress. As she 
kissed me, her lips felt like ice. “Come and see me, Ellen; don’t 
forget.” 

“Take care you do no such thing, Mrs Dean!” said her new 
father. “When I wish to speak to you I’ll come here. I want 
none of your prying at my house! ” 

240 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


He signed her to precede him; and casting back a look that 
cut my heart, she obeyed. I watched them from the window, 
walk down the garden. Heathcliff fixed Catherine’s arm under 
his: though she disputed the act at first evidently; and with rapid 
strides he hurried her into the alley, whose trees concealed them. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

I HAVE paid a visit to the Heights, but I have not seen her since 
she left: Joseph held the door in his hand when I called to ask 
after her, and wouldn’t let me pass. He said Mrs Linton was 
“thrang,” and the master was not in. Zillah has told me some¬ 
thing of the way they go on, otherwise I should hardly know who 
was dead and who living. She thinks Catherine haughty, and 
does not like her, I can guess by her talk. My young lady asked 
some aid of her when she first came; but Mr Heathcliff told her 
to follow her own business, and let his daughter-in-law look after 
herself; and Zillah willingly acquiesced, being a narrow-minded, 
selfish woman. Catherine evinced a child’s annoyance at this 
neglect; repaid it with contempt, and thus enlisted my informant 
among her enemies, as securely as if she had done her some great 
wrong. I had a long talk with Zillah about six weeks ago, a little 
before you came, one day when we foregathered on the moor; 
and this is what she told me. 

“The first thing Mrs Linton did,” she said, “on her arrival at 
the Heights, was to run upstairs, without even wishing good even¬ 
ing to me and Joseph; she shut herself into Linton’s room, and 
remained till morning. Then, while the master and Earnshaw 
were at breakfast, she entered the house, and asked all in a quiver 
if the doctor might be sent for ? her cousin was very ill. 

“‘We know that!’ answered Heathcliff; ‘but his life is not worth 
a farthing, and I won’t spend a farthing on him.’ 

“‘But I cannot tell how to do,’ she said; ‘and if nobody will 
help me, he’ll die! ’ 

“‘Walk out of the room,’ cried the master, ‘and let me never 
hear a word more about him! None here care what becomes of 
him; if you do, act the nurse; if you do not, lock him up and leave 
him.’ 


241 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 

“Then she began to bother me, and I said I’d had enough plague 
with the tiresome thing; we each had our tasks, and hers was to 
wait on Linton; Mr Heathcliff bid me leave that labour to her. 

“How they managed together, I can’t tell. I fancy he fretted 
a great deal, and moaned hisseln night and day; and she had pre¬ 
cious little rest: one could guess by her white face and heavy 
eyes. She sometimes came into the kitchen all wildered like, 
and looked as if she would fain beg assistance; but I was not going 
to disobey the master: I never dare disobey him, Mrs Dean; 
and, though I thought it wrong that Kenneth should not be sent 
for, it was no concern of mine either to advise or complain, and I 
always refused to meddle. Once or twice, after we had gone to 
bed, I’ve happened to open my door again and seen her sitting 
crying on the stairs’ top; and then I’ve shut myself in quick, for 
fear of being moved to interfere. I did pity her then, I’m sure: 
still I didn’t wish to lose my place, you know. 

“At last, one night she came boldly into my chamber, and 
frightened me out of my wits, by saying — 

“‘Tell Mr Heathcliff that his son is dying — I’m sure he is, 
this time. Get up, instantly, and tell him.’ 

“Having uttered this speech, she vanished again. I lay a quar¬ 
ter of an hour listening and trembling. Nothing stirred — the 
house was quiet. 

“She’s mistaken, I said to myself. He’s got over it. I needn’t 
disturb them; and I began to doze. But my sleep was marred 
a second time by a sharp ringing of the bell — the only bell we 
have, put up on purpose for Linton; and the master called to me 
to see what was the matter, and inform them that he wouldn’t 
have that noise repeated. 

“I delivered Catherine’s message. He cursed to himself, and 
in a few minutes came out with a lighted candle, and proceeded 
to their room. I followed. Mrs Heathcliff was seated by the 
bedside, with her hands folded on her knees. Her father-in-law 
went up, held the light to Linton’s face, looked at him, and touched 
him; afterwards he turned to her. 

“‘Now — Catherine,’ he said, ‘how do you feel?’ 

“She was dumb. 

“‘How do you feel, Catherine?’ he repeated. 

“‘He’s safe, and I’m free,’ she answered: ‘I should feel well — 
but,’ she continued, with a bitterness she couldn’t conceal, ‘you 

242 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


have left me so long to struggle against death alone, that I feel 
and see only death! I feel like death! ’ 

“And she looked like it, too! I gave her a little wine. Hare- 
ton and Joseph, who had been wakened by the ringing and the 
sound of feet, and heard our talk from outside, now entered. Jo- 
seph was fain, I believe, of the lad’s removal; Hareton seemed a 
thought bothered: though he was more taken up with staring at 
Catherine than thinking of Linton. But the master bid him get 
off to bed again: we didn’t want his help. He afterwards made 
Joseph remove the body to his chamber, and told me to return to 
mine, and Mrs Heathcliff remained by herself. 

“In the morning, he sent me to tell her she must come down to 
breakfast: she had undressed, and appeared going to sleep, and 
said she was ill; at which I hardly wondered. I informed Mr 
Heathcliff, and he replied — 

“‘Well, let her be till after the funeral; and go up now and then 
to get her what is needful; and, as soon as she seems better, tell 
me.’ ” 

Cathy stayed upstairs a fortnight, according to Zillah; who 
visited her twice a day, and would have been rather more friendly, 
but her attempts at increasing kindness were proudly and promptly 
repelled. 

Heathcliff went up once, to show her Linton’s will. He had 
bequeathed the whole of his, and what had been her, movable 
property to his father: the poor creature was threatened, or coaxed, 
into that act during her week’s absence, when his uncle died. The 
lands, being a minor, he could not meddle with. However, Mr 
Heathcliff has claimed and kept them in his wife’s right and his 
also: I suppose legally: at any rate, Catherine, destitute of cash 
and friends, cannot disturb his possession. 

“Nobody,” said Zillah, “ever approached her door, except that 
once, but I; and nobody asked anything about her. The first 
occasion of her coming down into the house was on a Sunday 
afternoon. She had cried out, when I carried up her dinner, 
that she couldn’t bear any longer being in the cold: and I told her 
the master was going to Thrushcross Grange, and Earnshaw 
and I needn’t hinder her from descending; so, as soon as she 
heard Heathcliff’s horse trot off, she made her appearance donned 
in black, and her yellow curls combed back behind her ears as 
plain as a Quaker: she couldn’t comb them out. 

2 43 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Joseph and I generally go to chapel on Sundays:” the kirk, 
you know, has no minister now, explained Mrs Dean; and they 
call the Methodists’ or Baptists’ place (I can’t say which it is), 
at Gimmerton, a chapel. “Joseph had gone,” she continued, 
“but I thought proper to bide at home. Young folks are always 
the better for an elder’s over-looking; and Hareton, with all his 
bashfulness, isn’t a model of nice behaviour. I let him know that 
his cousin would very likely sit with us, and she had been always 
used to see the Sabbath respected; so he had as good leave his 
guns and bits of indoor work alone, while she stayed. He coloured 
up at the news, and cast his eyes over his hands and clothes. The 
train-oil and gunpowder were shoved out of sight in a minute. 
I saw he meant to give her his company; and I guessed, by his 
way, he wanted to be presentable; so, laughing, as I durst not 
laugh when the master is by, I offered to help him, if he would, 
and joked at his confusion. He grew sullen, and began to swear. 

“Now, Mrs Dean,” Zillah went on, seeing me not pleased by 
her manner, “you happen think your young lady too fine for Mr 
Hareton; and happen you’re right: but I own I should love well 
to bring her pride a peg lower. And what will all her learning and 
her daintiness do for her, now ? She’s as poor as you or I: poorer 
I’ll be bound: you’re saving, and I’m doing my little all that road.” 

Hareton allowed Zillah to give him her aid; and she flattered 
him into a good humour: so, when Catherine came, half forget¬ 
ting her former insults, he tried to make himself agreeable, by the 
housekeeper’s account. 

“Missis walked in,” she said, “as chill as an icicle, and as high 
as a princess. I got up and offered her my seat in the arm-chair. 
No, she turned up her nose at my civility. Earnshaw rose, too, 
and bid her come to the settle, and sit close by the fire: he was 
sure she was starved. 

“‘I’ve been starved a month and more,’ she answered, resting 
on the word as scornful as she could. 

“And she got a chair for herself, and placed it at a distance from 
both of us. Having sat till she was warm, she began to look 
round, and discovered a number of books in the dresser; she was 
instantly upon her feet again, stretching to reach them: but they 
were too high up. Her cousin, after watching her endeavours a 
while, at last summoned courage to help her; she held her frock, 
and he filled it with the first that came to hand. 

244 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“That was a great advance for the lad. She didn’t thank 
him; still, he felt gratified that she had accepted his assistance, 
and ventured to stand behind as she examined them, and even to 
stoop and point out what struck his fancy in certain old pictures 
which they contained; nor was he daunted by the saucy style in 
which she jerked the page from his finger: he contented himself 
with going a bit farther back, and looking at her instead of the book. 
She continued reading, or seeking for something to read. His 
attention became, by degrees, quite centred in the study of her 
thick, silky curls: her face he couldn’t see, and she couldn’t see 
him. And, perhaps, not quite awake to what he did, but attracted 
like a child to a candle, at last he proceeded from staring to touch¬ 
ing; he put out his hand and stroked one curl, as gently as if it 
were a bird. He might have stuck a knife into her neck, she started 
round in such a taking. 

“‘Get away, this moment! How dare you touch me? Why 
are you stopping there?’ she cried, in a tone of disgust. ‘I can’t 
endure you! I’ll go upstairs again, if you come near me.’ 

“Mr Hareton recoiled, looking as foolish as he could do: he 
sat down in the settle very quiet, and she continued turning over 
her volumes another half-hour; finally, Earnshaw crossed over, 
and whispered to me — 

“‘Will you ask her to read to us, Zillah? I’m stalled of doing 
naught; and I do like — I could like to hear her! Dunnot say 
I wanted it, but ask of yourseln.’ 

“‘Mr Hareton wishes you would read to us, ma’am,’ I said im¬ 
mediately. ‘He’d take it very kind—he’d be much obliged.’ 

“She frowned; and looking up, answered — 

“‘Mr Hareton, and the whole set of you, will be good enough to 
understand that I reject any pretence at kindness you have the 
hypocrisy to offer! I despise you, and will have nothing to say 
to any of you! When I would have given my life for one kind 
word, even to see one of your faces, you all kept off. But I won’t 
complain to you! I’m driven down here by the cold; not either 
to amuse you or enjoy your society.’ 

“‘What could I ha’ done?’ began Earnshaw. ‘How was I to 

blame?’ 

“‘Oh! you are an exception,’ answered Mrs Heathcliff. ‘I 
never missed such a concern as you.’ 

“‘But I offered more than once, and asked,’he said, kindling 

245 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


up at her pertness, ‘I asked Mr Heathcliff to let me wake for 
you’ — 

Be silent! I’ll go out of doors, or anywhere, rather than have 
your disagreeable voice in my ear! ’ said my lady. 

“Hareton muttered she might go to hell, for him! and unsling¬ 
ing his gun, restrained himself from his Sunday occupations no 
longer. He talked now, freely enough; and she presently saw 
fit to retreat to her solitude: but the frost had set in, and, in spite 
of her pride, she was forced to condescend to our company, more 
and more. However, I took care there should be no further scorn¬ 
ing at my good-nature: ever since, I’ve been as stiff as herself; 
and she has no lover or liker among us: and she does not deserve 
one; for, let them say the least word to her, and she’ll curl back 
without respect of anyone! She’ll snap at the master himself, 
and as good as dares him to thrash her; and the more hurt she 
gets, the more venomous she grows.” 

At first, on hearing this account from Zillah, I determined to 
leave my situation, take a cottage, and get Catherine to come and 
live with me: but Mr Heathcliff would as soon permit that as he 
would set up Hareton in an independent house; and I can see no 
remedy, at present, unless she could marry again: and that scheme 
it does not come within my province to arrange. 

Thus ended Mrs Dean’s story. Notwithstanding the doctor’s 
prophecy, I am rapidly recovering strength; and though it be 
only the second week in January, I propose getting out on horse¬ 
back in a day or two, and riding over to Wuthering Heights, to 
inform my landlord that I shall spend the next six months in Lon¬ 
don; and, if he likes, he may look out for another tenant to take 
the place after October. I would not pass another winter here 
for much. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Y ESTERDAY was bright, calm, and frosty. I went to the 
Heights as I proposed; my housekeeper entreated me to 
bear a little note from her to her young lady, and I did not refuse, 
for the worthy woman was not conscious of anything odd in her 
request. The front door stood open, but the jealous gate was 
fastened, as at my last visit; I knocked, and invoked Earnshaw 

246 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


from among the garden beds; he unchained it, and I entered. 
The fellow is as handsome a rustic as need be seen. I took par¬ 
ticular notice of him this time; but then he does his best, appar¬ 
ently, to make the least of his advantages. 

I asked if Mr HeathclifT were at home? He answered, No; 
but he would be in at dinner-time. It was eleven o’clock, and I 
announced my intention of going in and waiting for him, at which 
he immediately flung down his tools and accompanied me, in the 
office of watchdog, not as a substitute for the host. 

We entered together; Catherine was there, making herself use¬ 
ful in preparing some vegetables for the approaching meal; she 
looked more sulky and less spirited than when I had seen her first. 
She hardly raised her eyes to notice me, and continued her employ¬ 
ment with the same disregard to common forms of politeness as 
before; never returning my bow and good-morning by the slightest 
acknowledgment. 

“She does not seem so amiable,” I thought, “as Mrs Dean 
would persuade me to believe. She’s a beauty, it is true; but not 
an angel.” 

Earnshaw surlily bid her remove her things to the kitchen. 
“Remove them yourself,” she said, pushing them from her as 
soon as she had done; and retiring to a stool by the window, where 
she began to carve figures of birds and beasts out of the turnip 
parings in her lap. I approached her, pretending to desire a view 
of the garden; and, as I fancied, adroitly dropped Mrs Dean’s 
note on to her knee, unnoticed by Hareton — but she asked aloud, 
“What is that?” and chucked it off. 

“A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at the 
Grange,” I answered; annoyed at her exposing my kind deed, 
and fearful lest it should be imagined a missive of my own. She 
would gladly have gathered it up at this information, but Hareton 
beat her; he seized and put it in his waistcoat, saying Mr Heathcliff 
should look at it first. Thereat, Catherine silently turned her face 
from us, and, very stealthily, drew out her pocket-handkerchief 
and applied it to her eyes; and her cousin, after struggling a while 
to keep down his softer feelings, pulled out the letter and flung it 
on the floor beside her, as ungraciously as he could. Catherine 
caught and perused it eagerly; then she put a few questions to me 
concerning the inmates, rational and irrational, of her former home; 
and gazing towards the hills, murmured in soliloquy — 

247 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“I should like to be riding Minny down there! I should like to 
be climbing up there! Oh! I’m tired — I’m stalled, Hareton!” 
And she leant her pretty head back against the sill, with half a yawn 
and half a sigh, and lapsed into an aspect of abstracted sadness: 
neither caring nor knowing whether we remarked her. 

“Mrs Heathcliff,” I said, after sitting some time mute, “you are 
not aware that I am an acquaintance of yours ? so intimate that I 
think it strange you won’t come and speak to me. My housekeeper 
never wearies of talking about and praising you; and she’ll be 
greatly disappointed if I return with no news of or from you, except 
that you received her letter and said nothing!” 

She appeared to wonder at this speech, and asked — 

“Does Ellen like you?” 

“Yes, very well,” I replied hesitatingly. 

“You must tell her,” she continued, “that I would answer her 
letter, but I have no materials for writing: not even a book from 
which I might tear a leaf.” 

“No books!” I exclaimed. “How do you contrive to live here 
without them? if I may take the liberty to inquire. Though pro¬ 
vided with a large library, I’m frequently very dull at the Grange; 
take my books away, and I should be desperate! ” 

“I was always reading, when I had them,” said Catherine; “and 
Mr Heathcliff never reads; so he took it into his head to destroy my 
books. I have not had a glimpse of one for weeks. Only once, I 
searched through Joseph’s store of theology, to his great irritation; 
and once, Hareton, I came upon a secret stock in your room — some 
Latin and Greek, and some tales and poetry: all old friends. I 
brought the last here — and you gathered them, as a magpie gathers 
silver spoons, for the mere love of stealing! They are of no use to 
you; or else you concealed them in the bad spirit that as you cannot 
enjoy them nobody else shall. Perhaps your envy counselled Mr 
Heathcliff to rob me of my treasures? But I’ve most of them 
written on my brain and printed in my heart, and you cannot deprive 
me of those ! ” 

Earnshaw blushed crimson when his cousin made this revelation 
of his private literary accumulations, and stammered an indignant 
denial of her accusations. 

“Mr Hareton is desirous of increasing his amount of knowledge,” 
I said, coming to his rescue. “He is not envious hut emulous ol your 
attainments. He’ll be a clever scholar in a few years.” 

248 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“And he wants me to sink into a dunce, meantime,” answered 
Catherine. “Yes, I hear him trying to spell and read to himself, 
and pretty blunders he makes! I wish you would repeat Chevy 
Chase as you did yesterday: it was extremely funny. I heard you; 
and I heard you turning over the dictionary to seek out the hard 
words, and then cursing because you couldn’t read their ex¬ 
planations !” 

The young man evidently thought it too bad that he should be 
laughed at for his ignorance, and then laughed at for trying to re¬ 
move it. I had a similar notion; and, remembering Mrs Dean’s 
anecdote of his first attempt at enlightening the darkness in which 
he had been reared, I observed — 

“But, Mrs Heathcliff, we have each had a commencement, and 
each stumbled and tottered on the threshold; had our teachers 
scorned instead of aiding us, we should stumble and totter yet.” 

“Oh!” she replied, “I don’t wish to limit his acquirements: 
still, he has no right to appropriate what is mine, and make it ridicu¬ 
lous to me with his vile mistakes and mispronunciations! Those 
books, both prose and verse, are consecrated to me by other asso¬ 
ciations; and I hate to have them debased and profaned in his 
mouth! Besides, of all, he has selected my favourite pieces that I 
love the most to repeat, as if out of deliberate malice.” 

Hareton’s chest heaved in silence a minute: he laboured under a 
severe sense of mortification and wrath, which it was no easy task to 
suppress. I rose, and, from a gentlemanly idea of relieving his em¬ 
barrassment, took up my station in the doorway, surveying the ex¬ 
ternal prospect as I stood. He followed my example, and left the 
room; but presently reappeared, bearing half-a-dozen volumes in 
his hands, which he threw into Catherine’s lap, exclaiming — 

“Take them! I never want to hear, or read, or think of them 
again!” 

“I won’t have them now,” she answered. “I shall connect them 
with you, and hate them.” 

She opened one that had obviously been often turned over, and 
read a portion in the drawling tone of a beginner; then laughed, 
and threw it from her. “And listen,” she continued provokingly, 
commencing a verse of an old ballad in the same fashion. 

But his self-love would endure no further torment: I heard, and 
not altogether disapprovingly, a manual check given to her saucy 
tongue. The little wretch had done her utmost to hurt her cousin’s 

249 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


sensitive though uncultivated feelings, and a physical argument was 
the only mode he had of balancing the account, and repaying its 
effects on the inflictor. He afterwards gathered the books and 
hurled them on the fire. I read in his countenance what anguish 
it was to offer that sacrifice to spleen. I fancied that as they con¬ 
sumed, he recalled the pleasure they had already imparted, and the 
triumph and ever-increasing pleasure he had anticipated from them; 
and I fancied I guessed the incitement to his secret studies also. He 
had been content with daily labour and rough animal enjoyments, 
till Catherine crossed his path. Shame at her scorn, and hope of her 
approval, were his first prompters to higher pursuits; and, instead 
of guarding him from one and winning him to the other, his en¬ 
deavours to raise himself had produced just the contrary result. 

“Yes; that’s all the good that such a brute as you can get from 
them!” cried Catherine, sucking her damaged lip, and watching 
the conflagration with indignant eyes. 

“You’d better hold your tongue, now,” he answered fiercely. 

And his agitation precluded further speech; he advanced hastily 
to the entrance, where I made way for him to pass. But ere he had 
crossed the doorstones, Mr Heathcliff, coming up the causeway, 
encountered him, and laying hold of his shoulder, asked — 

“What’s to do now, my lad?” 

“Naught, naught,” he said, and broke away to enjoy his grief and 
anger in solitude. 

Heathcliff gazed after him, and sighed. 

“It will be odd if I thwart myself,” he muttered, unconscious that 
I was behind him. “ But when I look for his father in his face, I find 
her every day more! How the devil is he so like ? I can hardly 
bear to see him.” 

He bent his eyes to the ground, and walked moodily in. There 
was a restless, anxious expression in his countenance I had never 
remarked there before; and he looked sparer in person. His 
daughter-in-law, on perceiving him through the window, immedi¬ 
ately escaped to the kitchen, so that I remained alone. 

“I’m glad to see you out of doors again, Mr Lockwood,” he said, 
in reply to my greeting; “ from selfish motives partly: I don’t think 
I could readily supply your loss in this desolation. I’ve wondered 
more than once what brought you here.” 

“ An idle whim, I fear, sir,” was my answer; “or else an idle whim 
is going to spirit me away. I shall set out for London, next week; 

250 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


and I must give you warning that I feel no disposition to retain 
Thrushcross Grange beyond the twelve months I agreed to rent it. 
I believe I shall not live there any more.” 

Oh, indeed; you’re tired of being banished from the world, are 
you? ’ he said. “But if you be coming to plead off paying for a 
place you won’t occupy, your journey is useless: I never relent in 
exacting my due from anyone.” 

“I’m coming to plead off nothing about it,” I exclaimed, con¬ 
siderably irritated. “Should you wish it, I’ll settle with you now,” 
and I drew my note-book from my pocket. 

“No, no,” he replied coolly; “you’ll leave sufficient behind to 
cover your debts, if you fail to return: I’m not in such a hurry. Sit 
down and take your dinner with us; a guest that is safe from re¬ 
peating his visit can generally be made welcome. Catherine, bring 
the things in: where are you?” 

Catherine reappeared, bearing a tray of knives and forks. 

“You may get your dinner with Joseph,” muttered Heathcliff 
aside, “and remain in the kitchen till he is gone.” 

She obeyed his directions very punctually: perhaps she had no 
temptation to transgress. Living among clowns and misanthropists, 
she probably cannot appreciate a better class of people when she 
meets them. 

With Mr Heathcliff, grim and saturnine, on the one hand, and 
Hareton, absolutely dumb, on the other, I made a somewhat cheer¬ 
less meal, and bade adieu early. I would have departed by the back 
way, to get a last glimpse of Catherine and annoy old Joseph; but 
Hareton received orders to lead up my horse, and my host himself 
escorted me to the door, so I could not fulfil my wish. 

“How dreary life gets over in that house!” I reflected, while 
riding down the road. “What a realisation of something more 
romantic than a fairy tale it would have been for Mrs Linton Heath¬ 
cliff, had she and I struck up an attachment, as her good nurse de¬ 
sired, and migrated together into the stirring atmosphere of the 
town 1” 


1802. — 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


T HIS September I was invited to devastate the moors of a friend 
in the north, and on my journey to his abode, I unexpectedly 
came within fifteen miles of Gimmerton. The ostler at a roadside 


25 1 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


public-house was holding a pail of water to refresh my horses, 
when a cart of very green oats, newly reaped, passed by, and he 
remarked — 

“Yon’s frough Gimmerton, nah! They’re alias three wick after 
other folk wi’ ther harvest.” 

“Gimmerton?” I repeated — my residence in that locality had 
already grown dim and dreamy. “Ah! I know. How far is it 
from this?” 

“Happen fourteen mile o’er th’ hills; and a rough road,” he 
answered. 

A sudden impulse seized me to visit Thrushcross Grange. It 
was scarcely noon, and I conceived that I might as well pass the 
night under my own roof as in an inn. Besides, I could spare a day 
easily to arrange matters with my landlord, and thus save myself 
the trouble of invading the neighbourhood again. Having rested 
a while, I directed my servant to inquire the way to the village; and, 
with great fatigue to our beasts, we managed the distance in some 
three hours. 

I left him there, and proceeded down the valley alone. The grey 
church looked greyer, and the lonely churchyard lonelier. I dis¬ 
tinguished a moor sheep cropping the short turf on the graves. It 
was sweet, warm weather — too warm for travelling; but the heat 
did not hinder me from enjoying the delightful scenery above and 
below: had I seen it nearer August, I’m sure it would have tempted 
me to waste a month among its solitudes. In winter nothing more 
dreary, in summer nothing more divine, than those glens shut in by 
hills, and those bluff, bold swells of heath. 

I reached the Grange before sunset, and knocked for admittance; 
but the family had retreated into the back premises, I judged, by one 
thin, blue wreath curling from the kitchen chimney, and they did not 
hear. I rode into the court. Under the porch, a girl of nine or ten 
sat knitting, and an old woman reclined on the house-steps, smoking 
a meditative pipe. 

“Is Mrs Dean within?” I demanded of the dame. 

“Mistress Dean? Nay!” she answered, “shoo doesn’t bide 
here: shoo’s up at th’ Heights.” 

“Are you the housekeeper, then?” I continued. 

“Eea, aw keep th’ hause,” she replied. 

“Well, I’m Mr Lockwood, the master. Are there any rooms to 
lodge me in, I wonder? I wish to stay all night.” 

252 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


a T’ maister!” she cried in astonishment. “ Whet, whoiver knew 
yah wur coming? Yah sud ha’ send word. They’s nowt norther 
dry nor mensful abaht t’ place: nowt there isn’t!” 

She threw down her pipe and bustled in, the girl followed, and I 
entered too; soon perceiving that her report was true, and, moreover, 
that I had almost upset her wits by my unwelcome apparition, I bade 
her be composed. I would go out for a walk; and, meantime, she 
must try to prepare a corner of a sitting-room for me to sup in, and a 
bedroom to sleep in. No sweeping and dusting, only good fire and 
dry sheets were necessary. She seemed willing to do her best; 
though she thrust the hearth-brush into the grates in mistake for the 
poker, and mal-appropriated several other articles of her craft: but 
I retired, confiding in her energy for a resting-place against my 
return. Wuthering Heights was the goal of my proposed excursion. 
An after-thought brought me back, when I had quitted the 
court. 

“All well at the Heights?” I inquired of the woman. 

“Eea, f’r owt ee knaw,” she answered, scurrying away with a pan 
of hot cinders. 

I would have asked why Mrs Dean had deserted the Grange, but 
it was impossible to delay her at such a crisis, so I turned away and 
made my exit, rambling leisurely along with the glow of a sinking 
sun behind, and the mild glory of a rising moon in front — one 
fading, and the other brightening — as I quitted the park, and 
climbed the stony by-road branching off to Mr Heathcliff’s dwelling. 
Before I arrived in sight of it, all that remained of day was a beam¬ 
less amber light along the west: but I could see every pebble on the 
path, and every blade of grass, by that splendid moon. I had 
neither to climb the gate nor to knock — it yielded to my hand. 
That is an improvement, I thought. And I noticed another, by the 
aid of my nostrils; a fragrance of stocks and wallflowers wafted on 
the air from amongst the homely fruit-trees. 

Both doors and lattices were open; and yet, as is usually the case 
in a coal district, a fine, red fire illumined the chimney: the comfort 
which the eye derives from it renders the extra heat endurable. But 
the house of Wuthering Heights is so large, that the inmates have 
plenty of space for withdrawing out of its influence; and accordingly, 
what inmates there were had stationed themselves not far from one 
of the windows! I could both see them and hear them talk before I 
entered, and looked and listened in consequence; being moved 

253 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


thereto by a mingled sense of curiosity and envy, that grew as I 
lingered. 

“Con -traryl” said a voice as sweet as a silver bell — “That for 
the third time, you dunce! I’m not going to tell you again. Recol¬ 
lect, or I’ll pull your hair! ” 

“Contrary, then,” answered another, in deep but softened tones. 
“And now, kiss me, for minding so well.” 

“No, read it over first correctly, without a single mistake.” 

The male speaker began to read: he was a young man, respectably 
dressed and seated at a table, having a book before him. His hand¬ 
some features glowed with pleasure, and his eyes kept impatiently 
wandering from the page to a small white hand over his shoulder, 
which recalled him by a smart slap on the cheek, whenever its owner 
detected such signs of inattention. Its owner stood behind; her 
light, shining ringlets blending, at intervals, with his brown locks, as 
she bent to superintend his studies; and her face — it was lucky he 
could not see her face, or he would never have been so steady. I 
could; and I bit my lip in spite, at having thrown away the chance 
I might have had of doing something besides staring at its smiting 
beauty. 

The task was done, not free from further blunders; but the pupil 
claimed a reward, and received at least five kisses: which, however, 
he generously returned. Then they came to the door, and from 
their conversation I judged they were about to issue out and have a 
walk on the moors. I supposed I should be condemned in Hareton 
Earnshaw’s heart, if not by his mouth, to the lowest pit in the infernal 
regions, if I showed my unfortunate person in his neighbourhood 
then; and feeling very mean and malignant, I skulked round to seek 
refuge in the kitchen. There was unobstructed admittance on that 
side also, and at the door sat my old friend Nelly Dean, sewing and 
singing a song; which was often interrupted from within by 
harsh words of scorn and intolerance, uttered in far from musical 
accents. 

“I’d rayther, by th’ haulf, hev ’em swearing i’ my lugs fro’h morn 
to neeght, nor hearken ye, hahsiver ! ” said the tenant of the kitchen, 
in answer to an unheard speech of Nelly’s. “It’s a blazing shame, 
that I cannot oppen t’ blessed Book, but yah set up them glories to 
Sattan, and all t’ flaysome wickednesses that iver were born into th’ 
warld! Oh! ye’re a raight nowt; and shoo’s another; and that 
poor lad’ll be lost atween ye. Poor lad !” he added, with a groan; 

2 54 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“he’s witched: I’m sartin on’t! O Lord, judge ’em, for there’s 
norther law nor justice among wer rollers !” 

“No! or we should be sitting in flaming fagots, I suppose,” re¬ 
torted the singer. “But wisht, old man, and read your Bible like a 
Christian, and never mind me. This is ‘Fairy Annie’s Wedding’ 
— a bonny tune — it goes to a dance.” 

Mrs Dean was about to recommence, when I advanced; and 
recognising me directly, she jumped to her feet, crying — 

“Why, bless you, Mr Lockwood! How could you think of re¬ 
turning in this way? All’s shut up at Thrushcross Grange. You 
should have given us notice !” 

“I’ve arranged to be accommodated there, for as long as I shall 
stay,” I answered. “I depart again to-morrow. And how are you 
transplanted here, Mrs Dean? tell me that.” 

“Zillah left, and Mr Heathcliff wished me to come, soon after you 
went to London, and stay till you returned. But, step in, pray! 
Have you walked from Gimmerton this evening?” 

“From the Grange,” I replied; “and while they make me lodg¬ 
ing room there, I want to finish my business with your master; 
because I don’t think of having another opportunity in a hurry.” 

“What business, sir?” said Nelly, conducting me into the house. 
“He’s gone out at present, and won’t return soon.” 

“About the rent,” I answered. 

“Oh! then it is with Mrs Heathcliff you must settle,” she ob¬ 
served; “or rather with me. She has not learnt to manage her 
affairs yet, and I act for her: there’s nobody else.” 

I looked surprised. 

“Ah! you have not heard of Heathcliff’s death, I see,” she 
continued. 

“Heathcliff dead !” I exclaimed, astonished. “How long ago?” 

“Three months since: but sit down and let me take your hat,and 
I’ll tell you all about it. Stop, you have had nothing to eat, have 
you ?” 

“I want nothing: I have ordered supper at home. You sit down 
too. I never dreamt of his dying! Let me hear how it came to 
pass. You say you don’t expect them back for some time — the 
young people ?” 

“No — I have to scold them every evening for their late rambles: 
but they don’t care for me. At least have a drink of our old ale; 
it will do you good: you seem weary.” 

255 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


She hastened to fetch it before I could refuse, and I heard 
Joseph asking whether “it warn’t a crying scandal that she should 
have followers at her time of life? And then, to get them 
jocks out o’ t’ maister’s cellar! He fair shaamed to ’bide still 
and see it.” 

She did not stay to retaliate, but re-entered in a minute, bearing a 
reaming silver pint, whose contents I lauded with becoming earnest¬ 
ness. And afterwards she furnished me with the sequel of Heath- 
cliff’s history. He had a “queer” end, as she expressed it. 

I was summoned to Wuthering Heights, within a fortnight of your 
leaving us, she said; and I obeyed joyfully, for Catherine’s sake. 
My first interview with her grieved and shocked me: she had altered 
so much since our separation. Mr Heathcliff did not explain his 
reasons for taking a new mind about my coming here; he only told 
me he wanted me, and he was tired of seeing Catherine: I must 
make the little parlour my sitting-room, and keep her with me. It 
was enough if he were obliged to see her once or twice a day. She 
seemed pleased at this arrangement; and, by degrees, I smuggled 
over a great number of books, and other articles, that had formed 
her amusement at the Grange; and flattered myself we should get 
on in tolerable comfort. The delusion did not last long. Catherine, 
contented at first, in a brief space grew irritable and restless. For 
one thing, she was forbidden to move out of the garden, and it fretted 
her sadly to be confined to its narrow bounds as spring drew on; 
for another, in following the house, I was forced to quit her fre¬ 
quently, and she complained of loneliness: she preferred quarrelling 
with Joseph in the kitchen to sitting at peace in her solitude. I did 
not mind their skirmishes: but Hareton was often obliged to seek 
the kitchen also, when the master wanted to have the house to him¬ 
self; and though in the beginning she either left it at his approach, 
or quietly joined in my occupations, and shunned remarking or 
addressing him — and though he was always as sullen and silent as 
possible — after a while she changed her behaviour, and became 
incapable of letting him alone: talking at him; commenting on his 
stupidity and idleness; expressing her wonder how he could endure 
the life he lived — how he could sit a whole evening staring into the 
fire and dozing. 

“He’s just like a dog, is he not, Ellen?” she once observed, “or a 
cart-horse? He does his work, eats his food, and sleeps eternally! 
What a blank, dreary mind he must have! Do you ever dream, 

256 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 

Hareton? And, if you do, what is it about? But you can’t speak 
to me!” 

Then she looked at him; but he would neither open his mouth nor 
look again. 

“He’s, perhaps, dreaming now,” she continued. “He twitched 
his shoulder as Juno twitches hers. Ask him, Ellen.” 

“Mr Hareton will ask the master to send you upstairs, if you don’t 
behave!” I said. He had not only twitched his shoulder but 
clenched his fist, as if tempted to use it. 

“I know why Hareton never speaks, when I am in the kitchen,” 
she exclaimed, on another occasion. “He is afraid I shall laugh at 
him. Ellen, what do you think ? He began to teach himself to read 
once; and because I laughed, he burned his books, and dropped it: 
was he not a fool ?” 

“Were not you naughty?” I said; “answer me that.” 

“Perhaps I was,” she went on; “but I did not expect him to be so 
silly. Hareton, if I gave you a book, would you take it now ? I’ll 
try! ” 

She placed one she had been perusing on his hand; he flung it off, 
and muttered, if she did not give over, he would break her neck. 

“Well, I shall put it here,” she said, “in the table drawer; and I’m 
going to bed.” 

Then she whispered me to watch whether he touched it, and de¬ 
parted. But he would not come near it; and so I informed her in 
the morning, to her great disappointment. I saw she was sorry for 
his persevering sulkiness and indolence: her conscience reproved 
her for frightening him off improving himself: she had done it 
effectually. But her ingenuity was at work to remedy the injury: 
while I ironed, or pursued other such stationary employments as I 
could not well do in the parlour, she would bring some pleasant vol¬ 
ume and read it aloud to me. When Hareton was there, she gen¬ 
erally paused in an interesting part, and left the book lying about: 
that she did repeatedly; but he was as obstinate as a mule, and, 
instead of snatching at her bait, in wet weather he took to smoking 
with Joseph; and they sat like automatons, one on each side of the 
fire, the elder happily too deaf to understand her wicked nonsense, 
as he would have called it, the younger doing his best to seem to dis¬ 
regard it. On fine evenings the latter followed his shooting expe¬ 
ditions, and Catherine yawned and sighed, and teased me to talk to 
her, and ran off into the court or garden, the moment I began; and, 

257 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


as a last resource, cried, and said she was tired of living: her life was 
useless. 

Mr Heathcliff, who grew more and more disinclined to society, had 
almost banished Earnshaw from his apartment. Owing to an acci¬ 
dent at the commencement of March, he became for some days a 
fixture in the kitchen. His gun burst while out on the hills by him¬ 
self ; a splinter cut his arm, and he lost a good deal of blood before he 
could reach home. The consequence was that, perforce, he was 
condemned to the fireside and tranquillity, till he made it up again. 
It suited Catherine to have him there: at any rate, it made her hate 
her room upstairs more than ever: and she would compel me to find 
out business below, that she might accompany me. 

On Easter Monday, Joseph went to Gimmerton fair with some 
cattle: and, in the afternoon, I was busy getting up linen in the 
kitchen. Earnshaw sat, morose as usual, at the chimney-corner, 
and my little mistress was beguiling an idle hour with drawing pic¬ 
tures on the window panes; varying her amusement by smothered 
bursts of songs, and whispered ejaculations, and quick glances of 
annoyance and impatience in the direction of her cousin, who stead¬ 
fastly smoked, and looked into the grate. At a notice that I could 
do with her no longer intercepting my light, she removed to the 
hearthstone. I bestowed little attention on her proceedings, but, 
presently, I heard her begin — 

“I’ve found out, Hareton, that I want — that I’m glad — that I 
should like you to be my cousin now, if you had not grown so cross 
to me, and so rough.” 

Hareton returned no answer. 

‘‘Hareton, Hareton, Hareton! do you hear?” she continued. 

“Get off wi’ ye !” he growled, with uncompromising gruffness. 

“Let me take that pipe,” she said, cautiously advancing her hand 
and abstracting it from his mouth. 

Before he could attempt to recover it, it was broken, and behind 
the fire. He swore at her and seized another. 

“Stop,” she cried, “you must listen to me first; and I can’t speak 
while those clouds are floating in my face.” 

“Will you go to the devil! ” he exclaimed ferociously, “and let me 
be! ” 

“No,” she persisted, “I won’t: I can’t tell what to do to make 
you talk to me; and you are determined not to understand. When 
I call you stupid, I don’t mean anything: I don’t mean that I despise 

258 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


you. Come, you shall take notice of me, Hareton! you are my 
cousin, and you shall own me.” 

“I shall have naught to do wi’ you and your mucky pride, and 
your damned mocking tricks !” he answered. “I’ll go to hell, body 
and soul, before I look sideways after you again. Side out o’ t’ gate, 
now; this minute!” 

Catherine frowned, and retreated to the window-seat chewing her 
lip, and endeavouring, by humming an eccentric tune, to conceal a 
growing tendency to sob. 

“You should be friends with your cousin, Mr Hareton,” I inter¬ 
rupted, “since she repents of her sauciness. It would do you a 
great deal of good: it would make you another man to have her for 
a companion.” 

“A companion!” he cried; “when she hates me, and does not 
think me fit to wipe her shoon ! Nay ! if it made me a king, I’d not 
be scorned for seeking her good-will any more.” 

“It is not I who hate you, it is you who hate me!” wept Cathy, 
no longer disguising her trouble. “You hate me as much as Mr 
Heathcliff does, and more.” 

“You’re a damned liar,” began Earnshaw: “why have I made 
him angry, by taking your part, then, a hundred times ? and that 
when you sneered at and despised me, and — Go on plaguing 
me, and I’ll step in yonder, and say you worried me out of the 
kitchen! ” 

“I didn’t know you took my part,” she answered, drying her eyes; 
“and I was miserable and bitter at everybody; but now I thank you, 
and beg you to forgive me: what can I do besides ?” 

She returned to the hearth, and frankly extended her hand. He 
blackened and scowled like a thunder-cloud, and kept his fists reso¬ 
lutely clenched, and his gaze fixed on the ground. Catherine, by 
instinct, must have divined it was obdurate perversity, and not dis¬ 
like, that prompted this dogged conduct; for, after remaining an 
instant undecided, she stooped and impressed on his cheek a gentle 
kiss. The little rogue thought I had not seen her, and, drawing 
back, she took her former station by the window, quite demurely. I 
shook my head reprovingly, and then she blushed and whispered — 

“Well! what should I have done, Ellen? He wouldn’t shake 
hands, and he wouldn’t look: I must show him some way that I like 
him — that I want to be friends.” 

Whether the kiss convinred Hareton, I cannot tell: he was very 

2 59 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


careful, for some minutes, that his face should not be seen, and when 
he did raise it, he was sadly puzzled where to turn his eyes. 

Catherine employed herself in wrapping a handsome book neatly 
in white paper, and having tied it with a bit of ribbon, and addressed 
it to “Mr Hareton Earnshaw,” she desired me to be her ambas¬ 
sadress, and convey the present to its destined recipient. 

“And tell him, if he’ll take it I’ll come and teach him to read it 
right,” she said; “and, if he refuse it, I’ll go upstairs, and never 
tease him again.” 

I carried it, and repeated the message; anxiously watched by my 
employer. Hareton would not open his fingers, so I laid it on his 
knee. He did not strike it off, either. I returned to my work. 
Catherine leaned her head and arms on the table, till she heard the 
slight rustle of the covering being removed; then she stole away, and 
quietly seated herself beside her cousin. He trembled, and his face 
glowed: all his rudeness and all his surly harshness had deserted 
him: he could not summon courage, at first, to utter a syllable in 
reply to her questioning look, and her murmured petition. 

“ Say you forgive me, Hareton, do ! You can make me so happy 
by speaking that little word.” 

He muttered something inaudible. 

“And you’ll be my friend?” added Catherine interrogatively. 

“Nay, you’ll be ashamed of me every day of your life,” he an¬ 
swered; “and the more ashamed, the more you know me; and I 
cannot bide it.” 

“So you won’t be my friend?” she said, smiling as sweet as 
honey, and creeping close up. 

I overheard no further distinguishable talk, but, on looking round 
again, I perceived two such radiant countenances bent over the page 
of the accepted book, that I did not doubt the treaty had been ratified 
on both sides; and the enemies were, thenceforth, sworn allies. 

The work they studied was full of costly pictures; and those and 
their position had charm enough to keep them unmoved till Joseph 
came home. He, poor man, was perfectly aghast at the spectacle of 
Catherine seated on the same bench with Hareton Earnshaw, lean¬ 
ing her hand on his shoulder; and confounded at his favourite’s 
endurance of her proximity: it affected him too deeply to allow an 
observation on the subject that night. His emotion was only re¬ 
vealed by the immense sighs he drew, as he solemnly spread his 
large Bible on the table, and overlaid it with dirty bank-notes from 

260 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


his pocket-book, the produce of the day’s transactions. At length, 
he summoned Hareton from his seat. 

“Tak’ these in to t’ maister, lad,” he said, “and bide there. I’s 
gang up to my own rahm. This hoile’s neither mensful nor seemly 
for us: we mun side out and seearch another.” 

“Come, Catherine,” I said, “we must ‘side out’ too; I’ve done 
my ironing, are you ready to go?” 

“It is not eight o’clock!” she answered, rising unwillingly. 
“Hareton, I’ll leave this book upon the chimney-piece, and I’ll 
bring some more to-morrow.” 

“Ony books that yah leave, I shall tak’ into th’ hahse,” said 
Joseph, “and it’ll be mitch if yah find em agean; soa, yah may plase 
yerseln!” 

Cathy threatened that his library should pay for hers; and, smil¬ 
ing as she passed Hareton, went singing upstairs: lighter of heart, I 
venture to say, than ever she had been under that roof before; ex¬ 
cept, perhaps, during her earliest visits to Linton. 

The intimacy thus commenced, grew rapidly; though it encoun¬ 
tered temporary interruptions. Earnshaw was not to be civilised 
with a wish, and my young lady was no philosopher, and no paragon 
of patience; but both their minds tending to the same point — one 
loving and desiring to esteem, and the other loving and desiring to 
be esteemed — they contrived in the end to reach it. 

You see, Mr Lockwood, it was easy enough to win Mrs Heath- 
cliff’s heart. But now, I’m glad you did not try. The crown of all 
my wishes will be the union of those two. I shall envy no one on 
their wedding-day: there won’t be a happier woman than myself in 
England! 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

O N the morrow of that Monday, Earnshaw being still unable to 
follow his ordinary employments, and therefore remaining 
about the house, I speedily found it would be impracticable to retain 
my charge beside me, as heretofore. She got downstairs before me, 
and out into the garden, where she had seen her cousin performing 
some easy work; and when I went to bid them come to breakfast, I 
saw she had persuaded him to clear a large space of ground from 

261 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


currant and gooseberry bushes, and they were busy planning to¬ 
gether an importation of plants from the Grange. 

I was terrified at the devastation which had been accomplished 
in a brief half-hour; the black currant trees were the apple of 
Joseph’s eye, and she had just fixed her choice of a flower-bed in the 
midst of them. 

“There! That will be all shown to the master,” I exclaimed, 
“the minute it is discovered. And what excuse have you to offer 
for taking such liberties with the garden? We shall have a fine 
explosion on the head of it: see if we don’t! Mr Hareton, I wonder 
you should have no more wit, than to go and make that mess at her 
bidding! ” 

“I’d forgotten they were Joseph’s,” answered Earnshaw, rather 
puzzled; “but I’ll tell him I did it.” 

We always ate our meals with Mr Heathcliff. I held the mistress’s 
post in making tea and carving; so I was indispensable at table. 
Catherine usually sat by me, but to-day she stole nearer to Hare- 
ton ; and I presently saw she would have no more discretion in her 
friendship than she had in her hostility. 

“Now, mind you don’t talk with and notice your cousin too 
much,” were my whispered instructions as we entered the room. 

‘ ‘ It will certainly annoy Mr Heathcliff, and he’ll be mad at you both. ” 

“I’m not going to,” she answered. 

The minute after, she had sidled to him, and was sticking prim¬ 
roses in his plate of porridge. 

He dared not speak to her there: he dared hardly look; and 
yet she went on teasing, till he was twice on the point of being 
provoked to laugh. I frowned, and then she glanced toward the 
master: whose mind was occupied on other subjects than his 
company, as his countenance evinced; and she grew serious for 
an instant, scrutinising him with deep gravity. Afterwards she 
turned, and recommenced her nonsense; at last, Hareton uttered 
a smothered laugh. Mr Heathcliff started; his eye rapidly sur¬ 
veyed our faces. Catherine met it with her accustomed look of 
nervousness and yet defiance, which he abhorred. 

“It is well you are out of my reach,” he exclaimed. “What 
fiend possesses you to stare back at me, continually, with those 
infernal eyes? Down with them! and don’t remind me of your 
existence again. I thought I had cured you of laughing.” 

“It was me,” muttered Hareton. 

262 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“What do you say?” demanded the master. 

Hareton looked at his plate, and did not repeat the confession. 
Mr Heathcliff looked at him a bit, and then silently resumed his 
breakfast and his interrupted musing. We had nearly finished, 
and the two young people prudently shifted wider asunder, so I 
anticipated no further disturbance during that sitting: when Jo¬ 
seph appeared at the door, revealing by his quivering lip and furi¬ 
ous eyes, that the outrage committed on his precious shrubs was 
detected. He must have seen Cathy and her cousin about the 
spot before he examined it, for while his jaws worked like those 
of a cow chewing its cud, and rendered his speech difficult to un¬ 
derstand, he began — 

“I mun hev my wage, and I mun goa! I had aimed to dee, 
wheare I’d sarved fur sixty year; and I thowt I’d lug my books 
up into t’ garret, and all my bits o’ stuff, and they sud hev t’ kitchen 
to theirseln; for t’ sake o’ quietness. It were hard to gie up my 
awn hearthstun, but I thowt I could do that! But, nah, shoo’s 
taan my garden fro’ me, and by th’ heart, maister, I cannot stand 
it! Yah may bend to th’ yoak, and ye will — I noan used to ’t, 
and an old man dosen’t sooin get used to new barthens. I’d ray- 
ther arn my bite and my sup wi’ a hammer in th’ road!” 

“Now, now, idiot!” interrupted Heathcliff, “cut it short! 
What’s your grievance? I’ll interfere in no quarrels between 
you and Nelly. She may thrust you into the coal-hole for any¬ 
thing I care.” 

“It’s noan Nelly!” answered Joseph. “I sudn’t shift for 
N e lli e — nasty ill nowt as shoo is. Thank God! shoo cannot 
stale t’ sowl o’ nob’dy! Shoo wer niver soa handsome, but what 
a body mud look at her ’bout winking. It’s yon flaysome, grace¬ 
less quean, that’s witched our lad, wi’ her bold een and her for- 
rard ways — till — Nay! it fair bursts my heart! He’s forgotten 
all I’ve done for him, and made on him, and goan and riven up a 
whole row o’ t’ grandest currant trees, i’ t’ garden!” And here 
he lamented outright; unmanned by a sense of his bitter injuries, 
and Earnshaw’s ingratitude and dangerous condition. 

“Is the fool drunk?” asked Mr Heathcliff. “Hareton, is it 
you he’s finding fault with?” 

“I’ve pulled up two or three bushes,” replied the young man; 
“but I’m going to set ’em again.” 

“And why have you pulled them up?” said the master. 

263 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


Catherine wisely put in her tongue. 

“We wanted to plant some flowers there,” she cried. “I’m the 
only person to blame, for I wished him to do it.” 

“And who the devil gave you leave to touch a stick about the 
place?” demanded her father-in-law, much surprised. “And 
who ordered you to obey her?” he added, turning to Hareton. 

The latter was speechless; his cousin replied — 

“You shouldn’t grudge a few yards of earth for me to orna¬ 
ment, when you have taken all my land!” 

“Your land, insolent slut! You never had any,” said Heath- 
cliff. 

“And my money,” she continued; returning his angry glare, 
and meantime biting a piece of crust, the remnant of her breakfast. 

“Silence!” he exclaimed. “Get done, and begone!” 

“And Hareton’s land, and his money,” pursued the reckless 
thing. “Hareton and I are friends now; and I shall tell him all 
about you!” 

The master seemed confounded a moment: he grew pale, and 
rose up, eyeing her all the while, with an expression of mortal 
hate. 

“If you strike me, Hareton will strike you,” she said; “so you 
may as well sit down.” 

“If Hareton does not turn you out of the room, I’ll strike him 
to hell,” thundered Heathcliff. “Damnable witch! dare you pre¬ 
tend to rouse him against me ? Off with her! Do you hear ? 
Fling her into the kitchen! I’ll kill her, Ellen Dean, if you let 
hef come into my sight again!” 

Hareton tried, under his breath, to persuade her to go. 

“Drag her away!” he cried savagely. “Are you staying to 
talk?” And he approached to execute his own command. 

“He’ll not obey you, wicked man, any more,” said Catherine; 
“and he’ll soon detest you as much as I do.” 

“Wisht! wisht!” muttered the young man reproachfully. 
“I will not hear you speak so to him. Have done.” 

“But you won’t let him strike me?” she cried. 

“Come, then,” he whispered earnestly. 

It was too late: Heathcliff had caught hold of her. 

“Now you go!” he said to Earnshaw. “Accursed witch! 
this time she has provoked me when I could not bear it; and I’ll 
make her repent it for ever!” 

264 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


He had his hand in her hair; Hareton attempted to release her 
locks, entreating him not to hurt her that once. Heathcliff’s 
black eyes flashed; he seemed ready to tear Catherine in pieces, 
and I was just worked up to risk coming to the rescue, when of a 
sudden his fingers relaxed; he shifted his grasp from her head to 
her arm, and gazed intently in her face. Then he drew his hand 
over her eyes, stood a moment to collect himself apparently, and 
turning anew to Catherine, said with assumed calmness — “You 
must learn to avoid putting me in a passion, or I shall really mur¬ 
der you sometime! Go with Mrs Dean, and keep with her; and 
confine your insolence to her ears. As to Hareton Earnshaw, if 
I see him listen to you, I’ll send him seeking his bread where he 
can get it! Your love will make him an outcast and a beggar. 
Nelly, take her; and leave me, all of you! Leave me!” 

I led my young lady out: she was too glad of her escape to re¬ 
sist; the other followed, and Mr Heathcliff had the room to him¬ 
self till dinner. I had counselled Catherine to dine upstairs; but, 
as soon as he perceived her vacant seat, he sent me to call her. 
He spoke to none of us, ate very little, and went out directly after¬ 
wards, intimating that he should not return before evening. 

The two new friends established themselves in the house during 
his absence; when I heard Hareton sternly check his cousin, on 
her offering a revelation of her father-in-law’s conduct to his father. 
He said he wouldn’t suffer a word to be uttered in his disparage¬ 
ment: if he were the devil, it didn’t signify; he would stand by 
him; and he’d rather she would abuse himself, as she used to, 
than begin on Mr Heathcliff. Catherine was waxing cross at 
this; but he found means to make her hold her tongue, by asking 
how she would like him to speak ill of her father ? Then she com¬ 
prehended that Earnshaw took the master’s reputation home to 
himself; and was attached by ties stronger than reason could 
break — chains, forged by habit, which it would be cruel to at¬ 
tempt to loosen. She showed a good heart, thenceforth, in avoid¬ 
ing both complaints and expressions of antipathy concerning 
Heathcliff; and confessed to me her sorrow that she had endeav¬ 
oured to raise a bad spirit between him and Hareton: indeed, I 
don’t believe she has ever breathed a syllable, in the latter’s hear¬ 
ing, against her oppressor since. 

When this slight disagreement was over, they were friends again, 
and as busy as possible in their several occupations of pupil and 

265 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


teacher. I came in to sit with them, after I had done my work; 
and I felt so soothed and comforted to watch them, that I did not 
notice how time got on. You know, they both appeared in a 
measure my children: I had long been proud of one; and now, I 
was sure, the other would be a source of equal satisfaction. His 
honest, warm, and intelligent nature shook off rapidly the clouds 
of ignorance and degradation in which it had been bred; and 
Catherine’s sincere commendations acted as a spur to his indus¬ 
try. His brightening mind brightened his features, and added 
spirit and nobility to their aspect: I could hardly fancy it the 
same individual I had beheld on the day I discovered my little 
lady at Wuthering Heights, after her expedition to the Crags. 
While I admired and they laboured, dusk drew on, and with it 
returned the master. He came upon us quite unexpectedly, en¬ 
tering by the front way, and had a full view of the whole three, 
ere we could raise our heads to glance at him. Well, I reflected, 
there was never a pleasanter, or more harmless sight; and it will 
be a burning shame to scold them. The red firelight glowed on 
their two bonny heads, and revealed their faces animated with 
the eager interest of children; for, though he was twenty-three 
and she eighteen, each had so much of novelty to feel and learn, 
that neither experienced nor evinced the sentiments of sober dis¬ 
enchanted maturity. 

They lifted their eyes together, to encounter Mr Heathcliff: 
perhaps you have never remarked that their eyes are precisely 
similar, and they are those of Catherine Earnshaw. The pres¬ 
ent Catherine has no other likeness to her, except a breadth of 
forehead, and a certain arch of the nostril that makes her appear 
rather haughty, whether she will or not. With Hareton the re¬ 
semblance is carried farther: it is singular at all times, then it 
was particularly striking; because his senses were alert, and his 
mental faculties wakened to unwonted activity. I suppose this 
resemblance disarmed Mr Heathcliff: he walked to the hearth in 
evident agitation; but it quickly subsided as he looked at the young 
man: or, I should say, altered its character; for it was there yet. 
He took the book from his hand, and glanced at the open page, 
then returned it without any observation; merely signing Cather¬ 
ine away: her companion lingered very little behind her, and I 
was about to depart also, but he bid me sit still. 

“It is a poor conclusion, is it not?” he observed, having brooded 

266 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


a while on the scene he had just witnessed: “an absurd termina¬ 
tion to my violent exertions? I get levers and mattocks to demol¬ 
ish the two houses, and train myself to be capable of working like 
Hercules, and when everything is ready and in my power, I find 
the will to lift a slate off either roof has vanished! My old ene¬ 
mies have not beaten me; now would be the precise time to revenge 
myself on their representatives: I could do it; and none could 
hinder me. But where is the use? I don’t care for striking; 
I can’t take the trouble to raise my hand! That sounds as if I 
had been labouring the whole time only to exhibit a fine trait of 
magnanimity. It is far from being the case: I have lost the fac¬ 
ulty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy 
for nothing. 

“Nelly, there is a strange change approaching: I’m in its 
shadow at present. I take so little interest in my daily life, that I 
hardly remember to eat and drink. Those two who have left the 
room are the only objects which retain a distinct material appear¬ 
ance to me; and that appearance causes me pain, amounting to 
agony. About her I won’t speak; and I don’t desire to think; 
but I earnestly wish she were invisible; her presence invokes 
only maddening sensations. He moves me differently: and 
yet if I could do it without seeming insane, I’d never see him again. 
You’ll perhaps think me rather inclined to become so,” he added, 
making an effort to smile, “if I try to describe the thousand forms 
of past associations and ideas he awakens or embodies. But 
you’ll not talk of what I tell you; and my mind is so eternally 
secluded in itself, it is tempting at last to turn it out to another. 

“Five minutes ago, Hareton seemed a personification of my 
youth, not a human being: I felt to him in such a variety of ways, 
that it would have been impossible to have accosted him rationally. 
In the first place, his startling likeness to Catherine connected him 
fearfully with her. That, however, which you may suppose the 
most potent to arrest my imagination, is actually the least: for 
what is not connected with her to me? and what does not recall 
her ? I cannot look down to this floor, but her features are shaped 
in the flags! In every cloud, in every tree — filling the air at 
night, and caught by glimpses in every object by day — I am sur¬ 
rounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men and 
women — my own features — mock me with a resemblance. 
The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she 

267 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


did exist, and that I have lost her! Well, -Hareton’s aspect was 
the ghost of my immortal love; of my wild endeavours to hold 
my right; my degradation, my pride, my happiness, and my 
anguish — 

“But it is frenzy to repeat these thoughts to you: only it will 
let you know why, with a reluctance to be always alone, his society 
is no benefit; rather an aggravation of the constant torment I 
suffer; and it partly contributes to render me regardless how he 
and his cousin go on together. I can give them no attention, any 
more.” 

“But what do you mean by a change , Mr Heathcliff?” I said, 
alarmed at his manner: though he was neither in danger of losing 
his senses, nor dying, according to my judgment: he was quite 
strong and healthy; and, as to his reason, from childhood he had 
a delight in dwelling on dark things, and entertaining odd fancies. 
He might have had a monomania on the subject of his departed 
idol; but on every other point his wits were as sound as mine. 

“I shall not know that till it comes,” he said, “I’m only half 
conscious of it now.” 

“You have no feeling of illness, have you?” I asked. 

“No, Nelly, I have not,” he answered. 

“Then you are not afraid of death?” I pursued. 

“Afraid? No!” he replied. “I have neither a fear nor a pre¬ 
sentiment, nor a hope of death. Why should I ? With my hard 
constitution and temperate mode of living, and unperilous occu¬ 
pations, I ought to, and probably shall , remain above ground till 
there is scarcely a black hair on my head. And yet I cannot con¬ 
tinue in this condition! I have to remind myself to breathe — 
almost to remind my heart to beat! And it is like bending back 
a stiff spring: it is by compulsion that I do the slightest act not 
prompted by one thought; and by compulsion that I notice anything 
alive or dead, which is not associated with one universal idea. I 
have a single wish, and my whole being and faculties are yearning 
to attain it. They have yearned towards it so long, and so unwav¬ 
eringly, that I’m convinced it will be reached — and soon — 
because it has devoured my existence: I am swallowed up in the 
anticipation of its fulfilment. My confessions have not relieved 
me; but they may account for some otherwise unaccountable 
phases of humour which I show. O God! It is a long fight, I 
wish it were over!” 


268 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


He began to pace the room, muttering terrible things to him¬ 
self, till I was inclined to believe, as he said Joseph did, that con¬ 
science had turned his heart to an earthly hell. I wondered greatly 
how it would end. Though he seldom before had revealed this 
state of mind, even by looks, it was his habitual mood, I had no 
doubt: he asserted it himself; but not a soul, from his general 
bearing, would have conjectured the fact. You did not when 
you saw him, Mr Lockwood: and at the period of which I speak 
he was just the same as then; only fonder of continued solitude, 
and perhaps still more laconic in company. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

F OR some days after that evening, Mr Heathcliff shunned 
meeting us at meals; yet he would not consent formally 
to exclude Hareton and Cathy. He had an aversion to yielding 
so completely to his feelings, choosing rather to absent himself; 
and eating once in twenty-four hours seemed sufficient sustenance 
for him. 

One night, after the family were in bed, I heard him go down¬ 
stairs, and out at the front door. I did not hear him re-enter, 
and in the morning I found he was still away. We were in April 
then; the weather was sweet and warm, the grass as green as 
showers and sun could make it, and the two dwarf apple-trees 
near the southern wall in full bloom. After breakfast, Cather¬ 
ine insisted on my bringing a chair and sitting with my work under 
the fir-trees at the end of the house; and she beguiled Hareton, 
who had perfectly recovered from his accident, to dig and arrange 
her little garden, which was shifted to that corner by the influence 
of Joseph’s complaints. I was comfortably revelling in the spring 
fragrance around, and the beautiful soft blue overhead, when my 
young lady, who had run down near the gate to procure some prim¬ 
rose roots for a border, returned only half laden, and informed us 
that Mr Heathcliff was coming in. “And he spoke to me,” she 
added, with a perplexed countenance. 

“What did he say?” asked Hareton. 

“He told me to begone as fast as I could,” she answered. “But 

269 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


he looked so different from his usual look that I stopped a moment 
to stare at him.” 

“How?” he inquired. 

“Why, almost bright and cheerful. No, almost nothing — 
very much excited, and wild and glad!” she replied. 

“Night-walking amuses him, then,” I remarked, affecting a 
careless manner: in reality as surprised as she was, and anxious 
to ascertain the truth of her statement; for to see the master look¬ 
ing glad would not be an every-day spectacle. I framed an ex¬ 
cuse to go in. Heathcliff stood at the open door, he was pale, 
and he trembled: yet, certainly, he had a strange, joyful glitter in 
his eyes, that altered the aspect of his whole face. 

“Will you have some breakfast?” I said. “You must be hun¬ 
gry, rambling about all night!” I wanted to discover where he 
had been, but I did not like to ask directly. 

“No, I’m not hungry,” he answered, averting his head, and 
speaking rather contemptuously, as if he guessed I was trying to 
divine the occasion of his good-humour. 

I felt perplexed: I didn’t know whether it were not a proper 
opportunity to offer a bit of admonition. 

“I don’t think it right to wander out of doors,” I observed, 
“instead of being in bed: it is not wise, at any rate, this moist 
season. I daresay you’ll catch a bad cold, or a fever: you have 
something the matter with you now!” 

“Nothing but what I can bear,” he replied; “and with the 
greatest pleasure, provided you’ll leave me alone; get in, and don’t 
annoy me.” 

I obeyed: and, in passing, I noticed he breathed as fast as a cat. 

“Yes!” I reflected to myself, “we shall have a fit of illness. I 
cannot conceive what he has been doing.” 

That noon he sat down to dinner with us, and received a heaped- 
up plate from my hands, as if he intended to make amends for 
previous fasting. 

“I’ve neither cold nor fever, Nelly,” he remarked, in allusion 
to my morning’s speech; “and I’m ready to do justice to the food 
you give me.” 

He took his knife and fork, and was going to commence eating, 
when the inclination appeared to become suddenly extinct. He 
laid them on the table, looked eagerly towards the window, then 
rose and went out. We saw him walking to and fro in the garden 

270 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


while we concluded our meal, and Earnshaw said he’d go and ask 
why he would not dine: he thought we had grieved him some 
way. 

“Well, is he coming?” cried Catherine, when her cousin re¬ 
turned. 

“Nay,” he answered; “but he’s not angry: he seemed rarely 
pleased indeed; only I made him impatient by speaking to him 
twice; and then he bid me be off to you: he wondered how I 
could want the company of anybody else.” 

I set his plate to keep warm on the fender; and after an hour 
or two he re-entered, when the room was clear, in no degree calmer: 
the same unnatural — it was unnatural — appearance of joy under 
his black brows; the same bloodless hue, and his teeth visible, 
now and then, in a kind of smile; his frame shivering, not as one 
shivers with chill or weakness, but as a tight-stretched cord vi¬ 
brates — a strong thrilling, rather than trembling. 

I will ask what is the matter, I thought; or who should? And 
I exclaimed — 

“Have you heard any good news, Mr Heathcliff? You look 
uncommonly animated.” 

“Where should good news come from to me?” he said. “I’m 
animated with hunger; and, seemingly, I must not eat.” 

“Your dinner is here,” I returned; “why won’t you get it?” 

“I don’t want it now,” he muttered hastily; “I’ll wait till sup¬ 
per. And, Nelly, once for all, let me beg you to warn Hareton 
and the other away from me. I wish to be troubled by nobody: 
I wish to have this place to myself.” 

“Is there some new reason for this banishment?” I inquired. 
“Tell me why you are so queer, Mr Heathcliff? Where were 
you last night? I’m not putting the question through idle curi¬ 
osity, but ”- 

“You are putting the question through very idle curiosity,” 
he interrupted, with a laugh. “Yet I’ll answer it. Last night I 
was on the threshold of hell. To-day, I am within sight of my 
heaven. I have my eyes on it: hardly three feet to sever me! 
And now you’d better go! You’ll neither see nor hear anything 
to frighten you, if you refrain from prying.” 

Having swept the hearth and wiped the table, I departed; more 
perplexed than ever. 

He did not quit the house again that afternoon, and no one 

271 



WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


intruded on his solitude; till, at eight o’clock, I deemed it proper, 
though unsummoned, to carry a candle and his supper to him. 
He was leaning against the ledge of an open lattice, but not look¬ 
ing out: his face was turned to the interior gloom. The fire had 
smouldered to ashes; the room was filled with the damp, mild 
air of the cloudy evening; and so still, that not only the murmur 
of the beck down Gimmerton was distinguishable, but its ripples 
and its gurgling over the pebbles, or through the large stones which 
it could not cover. I uttered an ejaculation of discontent at see¬ 
ing the dismal grate, and commenced shutting the casements, one 
after another, till I came to his. 

“Must I close this?” I asked, in order to rouse him; for he 
would not stir. 

The light flashed on his features as I spoke. Oh, Mr Lock- 
wood, I cannot express what a terrible start I got by the momen¬ 
tary view! Those deep black eyes! That smile, and ghastly 
paleness! It appeared to me, not Mr Heathcliff, but a goblin; 
and, in my terror, I let the candle bend towards the wall, and it 
left me in darkness. 

“Yes, close it,” he replied, in his familiar voice. “There, that 
is pure awkwardness ! Why did you hold the candle horizontally ? 
Be quick, and bring another.” 

I hurried out in a foolish state of dread, and said to Joseph — 

“The master wishes you to take him a light and rekindle the 
fire.” For I dare not go in myself again just then. 

Joseph rattled some fire into the shovel, and went; but he 
brought it back immediately, with the supper-tray in his other 
hand, explaining that Mr Heathcliff was going to bed, and he 
wanted nothing to eat till morning. We heard him mount the 
stairs directly; he did not proceed to his ordinary chamber, but 
turned into that with the panelled bed: its window, as I mentioned 
before, is wide enough for anybody to get through; and it struck 
me that he plotted another midnight excursion, of which he had 
rather we had no suspicion. 

“Is he a ghoul or a vampire?” I mused. I had read of such 
hideous incarnate demons. And then I set myself to reflect how 
I had tended him in infancy, and watched him grow to youth, 
and followed him almost through his whole course; and what 
absurd nonsense it was to yield to that sense of horror. “But 
where did he come from, the little dark thing, harboured by a good 

272 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


man to his bane?” muttered Superstition, as I dozed into uncon¬ 
sciousness. And I began, half dreaming, to weary myself with 
imagining some fit parentage for him; and, repeating my waking 
meditations, I tracked his existence over again, with grim varia¬ 
tions; at last, picturing his death and funeral: of which, all I can 
remember is, being exceedingly vexed at having the task of dic¬ 
tating an inscription for his monument, and consulting the sex¬ 
ton about it; and, as he had no surname, and we could not tell 
his age, we were obliged to content ourselves with the single word, 
“Heathcliff.” That came true: we were. If you enter the 
kirkyard, you’ll read on his headstone, only that, and the date of 
his death. 

Dawn restored me to common sense. I rose, and went into 
the garden, as soon as I could see, to ascertain if there were any 
footmarks under his window. There were none. “He has 
stayed at home,” I thought, “and he’ll be all right to-day.” I 
prepared breakfast for the household, as was my usual custom, 
but told Hareton and Catherine to get theirs ere the master came 
down, for he lay late. They preferred taking it out of doors, 
under the trees, and I set a little table'to accommodate them. 

On my re-entrance, I found Mr Heathcliff below. He and 
Joseph were conversing about some farming business; he gave 
clear, minute directions concerning the matter discussed, but he 
spoke rapidly, and turned his head continually aside, and had 
the same excited expression, even more exaggerated. When Jo¬ 
seph quitted the room he took his seat in the place he generally 
chose, and I put a basin of coffee before him. He drew it nearer, 
and then rested his arms on the table, and looked at the opposite 
wall, as I supposed, surveying one particular portion, up and down, 
with glittering, restless eyes, and with such eager interest that he 
stopped breathing during half a minute together. 

“Come now,” I exclaimed, pushing some bread against his 
hand, “eat and drink that, while it is hot: it has been waiting 
near an hour.” 

He didn’t notice me, and yet he smiled. I’d rather have seen 
him gnash his teeth than smile so. 

“Mr Heathcliff! master!” I cried, “don’t, for God’s sake, 
stare as if you saw an unearthly vision.” 

“Don’t, for God’s sake, shout so loud,” he replied. “Turn 
round, and tell me, are we by ourselves?” 

273 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Of course,” was my answer; “of course we are.” 

Still I involuntarily obeyed him, as if I was not quite sure. With 
a sweep of his hand he cleared a vacant space in front among the 
breakfast things, and leant forward to gaze more at his ease. 

Now, I perceived he was not looking at the wall; for when I 
regarded him alone, it seemed exactly that he gazed at something 
within two yards’ distance. And whatever it was, it communi¬ 
cated, apparently, both pleasure and pain in exquisite extremes: 
at least the anguished, yet raptured, expression of his countenance 
suggested that idea. The fancied object was not fixed: either his 
eyes pursued it with unwearied diligence, and, even in speaking to 
me, were never weaned away. I vainly reminded him of his pro¬ 
tracted abstinence from food: if he stirred to touch anything in 
compliance with my entreaties, if he stretched his hand out to 
get a piece of bread, his fingers clenched before they reached it, 
and remained on the table, forgetful of their aim. 

I sat, a model of patience, trying to attract his absorbed atten¬ 
tion from its engrossing speculation; till he grew irritable, and got 
up, asking why I would not allow him to have his own time in 
taking his meals? and saying that on the next occasion, I needn’t 
wait: I might set the things down and go. Having uttered these 
words he left the house, slowly sauntered down the garden path, 
and disappeared through the gate. 

The hours crept anxiously by: another evening came. I did 
not retire to rest till late, and when I did, I could not sleep. He 
returned after midnight, and, instead of going to bed, shut himself 
into the room beneath. I listened, and tossed about, and, finally, 
dressed and descended. It was too irksome to lie there, harassing 
my brain with a hundred idle misgivings. 

I distinguished Mr Heathcliff’s step, restlessly measuring the 
floor, and he frequently broke the silence by a deep inspiration, 
resembling a groan. He muttered detached words also; the only one 
I could catch was the name of Catherine, coupled with some wild 
term of endearment or suffering; and spoken as one would speak 
to a person present: low and earnest, and wrung from the depth 
of his soul. I had not courage to walk straight into the apart¬ 
ment; but I desired to divert him from his reverie, and therefore 
fell foul of the kitchen fire, stirred it, and began to scrape the 
cinders. It drew him forth sooner than I expected. He opened 
the door immediately, and said — 

274 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Nelly, come here — is it morning? Come in with your light.” 

“It is striking four,” I answered. “You want a candle to take 
upstairs: you might have lit one at this fire.” 

“No, I don’t wish to go upstairs,” he said. “Come in, and 
kindle me a fire, and do anything there is to do about the room.” 

“I must blow the coals red first, before I can carry any,” I re¬ 
plied, getting a chair and the bellows. 

He roamed to and fro, meantime, in a state approaching dis¬ 
traction ; his heavy sighs succeeding each other so thick as to leave 
no space for common breathing between. 

“When day breaks I’ll send for Green,” he said; “I wish to 
make some legal inquiries of him while I can bestow a thought 
on those matters, and while I can act calmly. I have not written 
my will yet; and how to leave my property I cannot determine. 
I wish I could annihilate it from the face of the earth.” 

“I would not talk so, Mr Heathcliff,” I interposed. “Let your 
will be a while: you’ll be spared to repent of your many injus¬ 
tices yet. I never expected that your nerves would be disordered: 
they are, at present, marvellously so, however; and almost entirely 
through your own fault. The way you’ve passed these three last 
days might knock up a Titan. Do take some food, and some 
repose. You need only look at yourself in a glass to see how you 
require both. Your cheeks are hollow, and your eyes bloodshot, 
like a person starving with hunger and going blind with loss of 
sleep.” 

“It is not my fault that I cannot eat or rest,” he replied. “I 
assure you it is through no settled designs. I’ll do both as soon 
as I possibly can. But you might as well bid a man struggling 
in the water rest within arm’s length of the shore! I must reach 
it first, and then I’ll rest. Well, never mind Mr Green: as to 
repenting of my injustices, I’ve done no injustice, and I repent 
of nothing. I’m too happy; and yet I’m not happy enough. My 
soul’s bliss kills my body, but does not satisfy itself.” 

“Happy, master?” I cried. “Strange happiness! If you 
would hear me without being angry, I might offer some advice that 
would make you happier.” 

“What is that?” he asked. “Give it.” 

“You are aware, Mr Heathcliff,” I said, “that from the time 
you were thirteen years old, you have lived a selfish, unchristian 
life; and probably hardly had a Bible in your hands during all 

275 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


that period. You must have forgotten the contents of the book, 
and you may not have space to search it now. Could it be hurt¬ 
ful to send for someone — some minister of any denomination, 
it does not matter which — to explain it, and show you how very 
far you have erred from its precepts; and how unfit you will be 
for its heaven, unless a change takes place before you die?” 

“I’m rather obliged than angry, Nelly,” he said, “for you re¬ 
mind me of the manner in which I desire to be buried. It is to 
be carried to the churchyard in the evening. You and Hareton 
may, if you please, accompany me: and mind, particularly, to 
notice that the sexton obeys my directions concerning the two 
coffins! No minister need come; nor need anything be said over 
me. — I tell you I have nearly attained my heaven; and that of 
others is altogether unvalued and uncoveted by me.” 

“And supposing you persevered in your obstinate fast, and died 
by that means, and they refused to bury you in the precincts of the 
Kirk?” I said, shocked at his godless indifference. “How would 
you like it?” 

“They won’t do that,” he replied: “if they did, you must have 
me removed secretly: and if you neglect it you shall prove, prac¬ 
tically, that the dead are not annihilated! ” 

As soon as he heard the other members of the family stirring he 
retired to his den, and I breathed freer. But in the afternoon, 
while Joseph and Hareton were at their work, he came into the 
kitchen again, and, with a wild look, bid me come and sit in the 
house: he wanted somebody with him. I declined: telling him 
plainly that his strange talk and manner frightened me, and I had 
neither the nerve nor the will to be his companion alone. 

“I believe you think me a fiend,” he said, with his dismal laugh: 
“something too horrible to live under a decent roof.” Then 
turning to Catherine, who was there, and who drew behind me at 
his approach, he added, half-sneeringly — “Will you come, chuck? 
I’ll ‘not hurt you. No! to you I’ve made myself worse than the 
devil. Well, there is one who won’t shrink from my company! 
By God! she’s relentless. Oh, damn it! It’s unutterably too 
much for flesh and blood to bear — even mine.” 

He solicited the society of no one more. At dusk, he went into 
his chamber. Through the whole night, and far into the morn¬ 
ing, we heard him groaning and murmuring to himself. Hareton 
was anxious to enter; but I bade him fetch Mr Kenneth, and he 

276 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


should go in and see him. When he came, and I requested ad¬ 
mittance and tried to open the door, I found it locked; and Heath- 
cliff bid us be damned. He was better, and would be left alone; 
so the doctor went away. 

The following evening was very wet: indeed it poured down 
till day-dawn; and, as I took my morning walk round the house, 
I observed the master’s window swinging open, and the rain driv¬ 
ing straight in. He cannot be in bed, I thought: those showers 
would drench him through. He must either be up or out. But 
I’ll make no more ado, I’ll go boldly and look.” 

Having succeeded in obtaining entrance with another key, I 
ran to unclose the panels, for the chamber was vacant; quickly 
pushing them aside, I peeped in. Mr Heathcliff was there — 
laid on his back. His eyes met mine so keen and fierce, I started; 
and then he seemed to smile. I could not think him dead: but 
his face and throat were washed with rain; the bedclothes dripped, 
and he was perfectly still. The lattice, flapping to and fro, had 
grazed one hand that rested on the sill; no blood trickled from 
the broken skin, and when I put my fingers to it, I could doubt no 
more: he was dead and stark! 

I hasped the window; I combed his black long hair from his 
forehead; I tried to close his eyes: to extinguish, if possible, that 
frightful, life-like gaze of exultation before anyone else beheld it. 
They would not shut: they seemed to sneer at my attempts: and 
his parted lips and sharp white teeth sneered too! Taken with 
another fit of cowardice, I cried out for Joseph. Joseph shuffled 
up and made a noise; but resolutely refused to meddle with him. 

“Th’ divil’s harried off his soul,” he cried, “and he may hev 
his carcass into t’ bargain, for aught I care ! Ech ! what a wicked 
un he looks girning at death!” and the old sinner grinned in mock¬ 
ery. I thought he intended to cut a caper round the bed; but, 
suddenly composing himself, he fell on his knees, and raised his 
hands, and returned thanks that the lawful master and the an¬ 
cient stock were restored to their rights. 

I felt stunned by the awful event; and my memory unavoid¬ 
ably recurred to former times with a sort of oppressive sadness. 
But poor Hareton, the most wronged, was the only one who really 
suffered much. He sat by the corpse all night, weeping in bitter 
earnest. He pressed its hand, and kissed the sarcastic savage 
face that everyone else shrank from contemplating; and bemoaned 

277 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


him with that strong grief which springs naturally from a gener¬ 
ous heart, though it be tough as tempered steel. 

Mr Kenneth was perplexed to pronounce of what disorder the 
master died. I concealed the fact of his having swallowed noth¬ 
ing for four days, fearing it might lead to trouble, and then, I 
am persuaded, he did not abstain on purpose: it was the conse¬ 
quence of his strange illness, not the cause. 

We buried him, to the scandal of the whole neighbourhood, as 
he wished. Earnshaw and I, the sexton, and six men to carry 
the coffin, comprehended the whole attendance. The six men 
departed when they had let it down into the grave: we stayed to 
see it covered. Hareton, with a streaming face, dug green sods, 
and laid them over the brown mould himself: at present it is as 
smooth and verdant as its companion mounds — and I hope its 
tenant sleeps as soundly. But the country folk, if you ask them, 
would swear on the Bible that he walks: there are those who speak 
to having met him near the church, and on the moor, and even in 
this house. Idle tales, you’ll say, and so say I. Yet that old man 
by the kitchen fire affirms he has seen two on ’em, looking out of 
his chamber window, on every rainy night since his death: — 
and an odd thing happened to me about a month ago. I was 
going to the Grange one evening — a dark evening, threatening 
thunder — and, just at the turn of the Heights, I encountered a 
little boy with a sheep and two lambs before him; he was crying 
terribly; and I supposed the lambs were skittish, and would not 
be guided. 

“What’s the matter, my little man?” I asked. 

“There’s Heathcliff and a woman, yonder, under t’ nab,” he 
blubbered, “un’ I darnut pass ’em.” 

I saw nothing; but neither the sheep nor he would go on; so I 
bid him take the road lower down. He probably raised the phan¬ 
toms from thinking, as he traversed the moors alone, on the non¬ 
sense he had heard his parents and companions repeat. Yet, 
still, I don’t like being out in the dark now; and I don’t like being 
left by myself in this grim house: I cannot help it; I shall be glad 
when they leave it, and shift to the Grange. 

“They are going to the Grange, then,” I said. 

“Yes,” answered Mrs Dean, “as soon as they are married, and 
that will be on New Year’s day.” 

“And who will live here, then?” 

278 


WUTHERING HEIGHTS 


“Why, Joseph will take care of the house, and, perhaps, a lad 
to keep him company. They will live in the kitchen, and the rest 
will be shut up.” 

“For the use of such ghosts as choose to inhabit it,” I observed. 

“No, Mr Lockwood,” said Nelly, shaking her head. “I be¬ 
lieve the dead are at peace: but it is not right to speak of them with 
levity.” 

At that moment the garden gate swung to; the ramblers were 
returning. 

“ They are afraid of nothing,” I grumbled, watching their ap¬ 
proach through the window. “Together they would brave Satan 
and all his legions.” 

As they stepped on to the door-stones, and halted to take a last 
look at the moon — or, more correctly, at each other by her light 
— I felt irresistibly impelled to escape them again; and, pressing 
a remembrance into the hand of Mrs Dean, and disregarding her 
expostulations at my rudeness, I vanished through the kitchen 
as they opened the house-door; and so should have confirmed 
Joseph in his opinion of his fellow-servant’s gay indiscretions, had 
he not fortunately recognised me for a respectable character by 
the sweet ring of a sovereign at his feet. 

My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the direction 
of the kirk. When beneath its walls, I perceived decay had made 
progress, even in seven months: many a window showed black 
gaps deprived of glass; and slates jutted off, here and there, be¬ 
yond the right line of the roof, to be gradually worked off in com¬ 
ing autumn storms. 

I sought, and soon discovered, the three head-stones on the 
slope next the moor: the middle one grey, and half buried in 
heath: Edgar Linton’s only harmonised by the turf and moss 
creeping up its foot; Heathcliff’s still bare. 

I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the 
moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the 
soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any¬ 
one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that 
quiet earth. 












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